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AGNES 

; 


AND 


THE KEY OF HER LITTLE COFFIN. 


BY HER FATHER. 



BOSTON: 

S. K. WHIPPLE AND COMPAN 
161 Washington 

1S5 7. 


Street. 

The Libra ry 
of Con r.< : ss 

WASHINf TON 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by 
S. K. WHIPPLE AND COMPANY, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Massachusetts. 


LITHOTYPED BY THE AMERICAN STEREOTYPE COMPANY, 
PHCENIX BUILDING, BOSTON. 


“ 3Tf)t apostle youle unto tfjc Homatncs 
toritrtlj, Jtlan sfjall rrfonce toitlj Ijcrn tljat 
mattetij joi>r, anti tocpcn toltlj stotcljc folfec as 
torpru.” 


Chaucer. 








AGNES. 


























































CONTENTS 


CHAPTERS PA0E . 


I. 

AGNES — Her Sickness, Death, and Burial — 
Finding of the Key, .... 

9 

II. 

What shall I do with the Key ? . . . 

. 21 

HI. 

Parental Sorrow and Submission, 

29 

IV. 

Consolations,. 

. 35 

V. 

Visit to the Grave with the Key, 

45 

VI. 

Instructions and Comfort from the Key, . 

. 62 

VII. 

Anniversaries of Bereavements, 

97 

vm. 

Burial of the Drover’s Child, 

. 102 

IX. 

The Bereaved Infidel, .... 

. 106 

X. 

Helping one’s self in Affliction, 

. 150 

XI. 

Losing and Leaving Children, . 

. 167 


(VII.) 

















. 





















































































AGNES. 


CHAPTER I. 

She was not quite one year old. I can¬ 
not venture to describe her. My heart 
swells and is ready to break at the thought 
of some sweet, touching feature, some win¬ 
ning way, the posture and motion of her 
hands or feet, her inarticulate noises with 
her lips, the pressure of her mouth against 
our cheeks, that being as far as she had 
advanced in kissing. Sights of her asleep, 
when her mother and I stood over her with 
lamp in hand, are as deeply stamped on my 
mind as views in the Alps. I could tell you 
every dimple which we detected as she lay 
on her back, a knee or arm disengaged from 
her clothing. All her mimicry of sounds and 

(9) 






10 


AGNES. 


of motions, and her little feats, which aston¬ 
ished herself and made us shout; her morning 
bath, she a little image, with her very straight 
back, plashing the water with her feet; and 
other nameless things, raise the question, and 
leave it in doubt, whether I wish there were 
more of them to remember, or whether it is 
well for me that she had been developed no 
more. Human bliss arrives at perfection as 
frequently in such scenes and experiences, as 
when we have made calculations for happi¬ 
ness; indeed, we are never more happy than 
during the little, sudden tournaments of love 
with a young child; and the man who has a 
wife and child, supplying him with these inad¬ 
vertent pleasures, will find in the retrospect 
that he was most happy when he least sus¬ 
pected it. To know when we have in posses¬ 
sion the means of true happiness, and to rejoice 
in it, and feel satisfied, is rare. Would that I 
had thought more of this when my little child 
was with me. 

Sometimes I looked at her with a feeling of 


AGNES. 


11 


awe. Mine, indeed, she was; but in what a 
subordinate sense! That perfect frame, that 
wondrous mind, that immortal destiny, often 
made me shrink into nothingness at the con¬ 
templation of her—feeling that God, in making 
her, had rolled a sphere into an orbit which is 
measureless, making it touch mine, but having 
a path of its own, which cannot be compre¬ 
hended in that of another, not even in that of 
the earthly parent. I was glad that there was 
an infinite God to possess this infinite treasure, 
and control it; for it was too much for me. 
My enjoyment of her was often overshadowed 
by these thoughts. Still she was to me a 
perfect joy. Her beautifully unfolding life 
left me nothing to desire. 

But the destroyer came. It had been an 
exceedingly hot summer, and cholera infantum 
began to waste the little face and frame. We 
saw that she must die; we nevertheless main¬ 
tained a cheerfulness of feeling which after¬ 
ward seemed to us unnatural; but no doubt it 
was kindly given, to bear us through the trial. 



12 


AGNES. 


The last night that she was put to rest, her 
symptoms were favorable; but, early in the 
morning, the nurse whispered to me, that the 
child “ looked strange,” and she led my way 
to the nursery. The little patient lay with 
her hand under her cheek, her eyes were 
raised and fixed on the wall. I supposed that 
she was watching a shadow, and I spoke to 
her by name. She did not move, nor did she 
turn her eyes; I spoke again, and kissed her; 
it was in vain ; the fearful truth flashed upon 
me, that she was convulsed. We watched 
her till sundown, when she ceased to breathe. 

I fear that some of you will smile, if I say, 
she seemed to me the sweetest little thing 
that ever died; that, as she lay in her last 
sleep, no sight could be quite so beautiful and 
touching ; that the loss of a child never, 
probably, awoke such tenderness of love and 
such grief. Sutler me at least to think so, 
without debate. 

How can I tell you anything about the last 
sad scene at the grave? Enough to say that 


AGNES. 


13 


each of us kissed the sweet face; we gazed on 
her a few moments, while tears ran down; and 
some things w r ere uttered, between speaking 
and crying, till at length her mother kneeled, 
and held her face near the little face for a 
few moments, without a sound; then drew the 
white embroidered blanket over the little 
thing, for it was a cold day; and thus the last 
u Now I lay me down to sleep ” seemed to be 
said and heard. I closed the lid. “Lieth 
down and riseth not, till the heavens be no 
more; ” — what shall I have seen and known 
before I see this face again! That simple 
thing, the closing of the lid, what a world of 
meaning was in it! My thoughts were mak¬ 
ing a whirlpool about me, till my eye was 
taken by the nearer approach of a man, in 
his shirt>sleeves and rough working garb, 
who respectfully seemed to intimate, We 
are ready, sir, when you are. 0 must we, 
must we, part? Must the grave have her? 
With an effort, I said, Thy will be done. I 
turned the key, and took it out of the lock, 
2 



14 


AGNES. 


and understood how even good men could 
have opened their mouths, at certain times, 
against the day of their birth. We waited. 
In a few moments, one more little mound 
grew up from the earth; the clods of the 
valley had become sweet to one more father 
and mother. 

We rode away. I was glad that the horses 
started off so fast, though, for the first moment, 
it shocked me. I was expecting to move 
away at the slow, solemn pace with which we 
came. 

Turning a corner in the cemetery, a little 
stone over a little grave, the only one in the 
enclosure, caught my eye, as we drove past, 
with this inscription: Charlie. Ah, is Charlie 
dead ? I felt very sorry. Who Charlie was, 
I did not know; but his father, I thought, had 
been there on an errand like mine. Had I 
met him in the street, on my way home, some 
one pointing him out to me, I would have 
stopped him, and told him what I had seen, 
and that Agnes was dead. Fpr a moment, the 


AGNES. 


15 


stream of my grief was broken and divided 
by that little headstone, as a great river is 
divided by the delta at its mouth; but it 
came together again very soon. 

It is known, and some of you to whom 
I speak have had painful opportunity to know, 
that there has been, of late years, an improve¬ 
ment in the little depositories in which we 
convey the forms of infants and young chil¬ 
dren to their last resting-place. 

Their shape is not in seeming mockery of 
the rigid, swathed body; the broken lines and 
angles of the old coffin are drawn into con¬ 
tinuous lines; they look like other things, and 
not like that which looks like nothing else, a 
coffin; you w r ould be willing to have such a 
shape for the depository of any household 
article. Within, they are prepared with a 
pearly white lining; the inside of the lid is 
draped in the same way; the name is on the 
inside; and a lock and key supplant the re¬ 
morseless screws and screw-driver. 

As I was going to bed that night, and was 




16 


AGNES. 


taking off my vest, emptying the pockets, in a 
listless mood, of whatever had found its way 
there through the day, I drew forth, among 
other things, a little key, trimmed with white 
satin ribbon. 

Then the clouds returned after the rain. 
I thought, for a few moments, that I should 
lose my reason. 

Why need I attempt to relate the mingled 
feelings, with a particular anguish in each of 
them, with which I stood in the middle of my 
room, alone, holding that key in my hand ? 

It became necessary, at last, to put it some¬ 
where. But it was the most difficult thing to 
dispose of which ever came into my posses¬ 
sion. I could neither keep it nor part with it. 
I abhorred it, and idolized it. I wished to be 
rid of it, and I clung to it. There was a 
fearful spell about it; and yet it was a charm, 
a precious treasure, and at the same time a 
symbol of my agony. I hung it up over a 
picture in my private room, for the night. 

But I lay some time in the morning, afraid 



AGNES. 


IT 


to go into that room. I felt that there was 
but one thing there. I opened the door, with 
my eyes levelled at the spot where I was to 
see that thing. The cheerful sunlight was 
streaming upon that part of the room, and, 
how strange ! it made a focus on the key, and 
the light gleamed from it. I ought to have 
felt, more than I did, that the love and com¬ 
passion of God was trying to speak comfort to 
me. 

I took the key, and wrote the little name 
on the ribbon, the birth-day, the dying-day, 
the day of burial, the path, and the number 
of the burial-place. 

Enhancing the value of this priceless treas¬ 
ure by this inscription, I consulted with 
myself what to do with it. Perhaps you 
would kindly be willing to follow me in my 
perplexity, and see how one project after 
another arose and was debated in my mind, 
in settling the question, where I should place 
and keep the little key. Though you suffer 
the afflicted to tell their tale in their own 


2 * 




18 


AGNES. 


way, with all its needless particularity of 
dates, incidents, and strictest regard to un¬ 
important historical succession, I shall avoid 
these things, for I know to whom I speak. A 
goodly company have I with me, sitting on 
the ground, keeping silence, and harkening 
to my woe. 


CHAPTER II. 


The question was, What shall I do with the 
key of the little coffin ? 

A large part of the forenoon was spent, to 
the neglect of other things, in fruitless debates 
with myself as to the best way of keeping this 
strange possession. I had, perhaps, thirty 
keys, but never was I at a loss where to keep 
any of them. Most of them were in bunches, 
on rings ; the thought of placing this among 
them was revolting. I was afraid of seeing it 
too often, while I also wished to keep it con¬ 
stantly in sight. Should I desecrate the key 
of such an enclosure, as I would, by mixing 
it with drawer-keys and keys of trunks ? 

My first conclusion was, that I should keep 
it in my purse. Then I resolved that I would 
tie it in my Bible. IIow it would unlock for 
me the promises of God’s Word, open many 

( 19 ) 


20 


AGNES. 


meanings of passages which I never thought 
of, and be a seal to all the truths which would 
meet my eye, especially those relating to the 
transitoriness of earthly good, and to all which 
is said of heaven. And yet I was afraid of 
seeing it too often. 

The little crib had been carried away to the 
store-chamber, with the trunks, old andirons, 
carpets, and supernumerary things. To tie the 
little key to the little crib, joining her first 
and last resting-places together, w T as another 
project which was soon abandoned. 

I will store it up with her playthings, I 
said to myself; and went to the drawer of the 
old “ secretary,” in the upper chamber, and 
looked upon them. 

I did wrong to trust myself there. My 
wife, with the child in her lap, was riding with 
me in the time of apple blossoms, through 
some of the neighboring towns; and, stop¬ 
ping a peddler under a great apple tree, and 
seeing the rattle, she took it, for future use. 
How the blossom-leaves fell into the chaise, 


AGNES. 


21 


and on our laps, while a little hand was made to 
open, and was held out to catch some of them. 
0, that incense-breathing May day! that 
sweet communion, that joint love for the little 
treasure with us, which made us the happiest 
of parents! And now I had come to lay the 
little key by the side of that toy. Sir Thomas 
Browne says, “ Fortune lays the plot of our 
adversities in the foundation of our felicities.” 
How did those playthings seem to look up in 
my face and mock me! The strings of red 
coral, to loop the arms of dresses, were there 
in the same white satin paper-box in which I 
brought them from the jeweller’s. I was duly 
notified, and was present when they were tried 
on. A tin horse on rockers, red and white, 
lay prostrate on his side. Two india-rubber 
rings, with prints of small teeth in them, were 
there. What searchings for those teeth there 
used to be, before they came up like lambs 
from the washing. A box with a puff-ball and 
powder was there put away; a silver whistle, 
with small bells at the end; a Turkish-looking 


22 


AGNES. 


head and body on a stick, with spangles on 
pendant strips of cashmere; a little comb and 
very soft brush, all lay together, as though 
discrimination had dreaded to exercise itself' 
there. And so, in reckless negligence, incon¬ 
gruous things, bound together, however, by 
one dread tie, lay useless and neglected. Here 
seemed the place for the little key, except 
that it involved the idea of abandoning it. 
Had its use come to an end? shall it be 
doomed to oblivion? shall I put it where I 
shall not dare to look at it, through fear of 
meeting other things which will combine their 
power to torment me ? I can look at it alone. 
But I could neither consent to leave it where 
I would not be willing to go, or where, if I 
did go, I should suffer at the sight of so many 
other little memorials. So I brought it away, 
as much at a loss as ever how to dispose of it. 

By this time it became necessary for me to 
take advice on the subject; and accordingly I 
went into my wife’s room, and found her sit¬ 
ting before her cheerful, blazing fire ; the 


AGNES. 


23 


room darkened a little, and her small Bible 
lying in her lap, which she had evidently been 
reading when I tapped at her door. 

What a hush there was in that chamber of 
sorrow! Things seemed to be holding their 
peace; they looked as though they had set¬ 
tled themselves into a posture for deep 
thought. The muslin window-curtains never 
hung so straight and proper before. The 
chairs each had a vacated look, while the 
cannel coal made its sizzling noises more 
vivaciously than ever, and, as I fancied, with 
the feelings of a boy whistling in the dark. 

Dear wife! she was pale, and had been 
weeping. May I not as well disclose the 
dread secret here, as elsewhere, that now she 
sleeps by the side of Agnes ? I will not en¬ 
large. I sat by her side, and we both looked 
into the fire. 

" You did not take cold, yesterday,” said I. 

"No,” said she; "it was thoughtful in you 
to fix that board for me to stand on while they 
were filling the—” 


24 


AGNES. 


There was a pause, and I said, “ Let us try 
and not think of yesterday; ” — at the same 
time knowing how foolish it was to say this, 
especially as I myself thought of nothing else; 
but I had to say something. 

“ Will you tell me,” said I, “ what you were 
saying, yesterday, when you put your face 
down to the dear little face at the grave, and 
held it there ? ” 

“ 0,1 recollected,” said she, a how I gave 
that child to God before she was born. One 
day I read that passage in the Psalms where 
David is dwelling with so much satisfaction on 
God’s perfect knowledge of him, and 6 possess¬ 
ing’ him before he was born.” 

I sat and thought of those words, which we 
seldom repeat to one another; or, if we read 
them in company, the voice feels a subduing 
influence from them. Yet, to one in trouble, 
nothing gives a more impressive sense of 
God’s perfect knowledge of him, and property 
in him, than to read, a Thine eye did see my 
substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy 


AGNES. 


25 


book all my members were written, which in 
continuance were fashioned, when, as yet, 
there was none of them. How precious, also, 
are thy thoughts unto me, 0 God! how 
great is the sum of them! If I should count 
them, they are more in number than the 
sand: when I awake, I am still with thee.” 

She broke my reverie by saying: “At the 
time you refer to, yesterday, I was going over 
my feelings about Agnes, from the very first 
moment, and all along; and I thought how en¬ 
tirely I gave her up to God, when I knew that 
I was to be a mother, and when she was given 
! to us. When I took my last look, and felt 
her little cheek for the last time, I did again, 
what I had done so many times before, — I 
gave her up to God, to be disposed of for his 
glory.” 

“And now,” said I, “He has taken us at our 
word.” 

“ If we were sincere in all that we did,” she 
replied, “ we have nothing to regret. Though 
her child lay dead, the Shunamite woman 

3 



26 


AGNES. 


said, ‘ It is well/ I am trying to say this, and 
you must 'help me.” 

“ I came in,” said I, “ to ask what we should 
do with that little key which I brought away 
with me, yesterday.” 

“ 0, did you bring it away ? I wondered 
whether you did. I almost hoped that you 
* gave it to the undertaker.” 

“ What could he have done with it ? ” said I. 

a It could never be of any use, of course, 
and why should you keep it ? I am afraid it 
will only harrow up your feelings.” 

a Perhaps, then,” I replied, “ I will take it to 
him, and let him mix it with other keys of the 
same kind, or use it as a spare key when one 
is lost.” 

“ 0 no,” she said, hesitatingly, “ I would not 
do that.” 

“ But where,” said I, “ shall we keep it ?” I 
then told her of my several projects, and how 
it had made me suffer already, and still how I 
clung to the little treasure. 

She had the greatest skill in managing my 


AGNES. 


27 


feelings, at all times, without any show of 
power over me. I worshipped her almost as 
a superior being, leading, guiding me in times 
of great excitement, and always bringing me 
out with self-respect, and with augmented 
reverence for her. 

“Before you discuss the little key,” she 
said, “I want you to read to me that long 
letter which father wrote soon after Agnes 
was born. I always wondered why father 
never tried his hand at writing tales. That 
story is told in such a way that it affects me 
like a tale. It will divert my mind to hear 
you read it, and, at the same time, it is on a 
subject which will suit my feelings.” 

I went to my desk for the manuscript, ask¬ 
ing myself whether it was really for her sake 
or my own, that she wished me to read it to 
her; and, though I suspected that it was for 
my sake, yet, the ingenious way in which it 
was brought about, pleased me, and I gladly 
gave myself up to the innocent stratagem—if, 
indeed, it were such. As I took the manu- 


28 


AGNES. 


script from the file of papers which were with 
it, I slipped the little key under the large 
india-rubber band which held them together, 
glad of some temporary hiding-place for it. 

The dinner-bell rang on my way back to 
her room. “Is it possible?” we both ex¬ 
claimed • “ where has the morning gone ? ” I 
thought it was about noon. It was two 
o’clock. 


CHAPTER III 


Entering the dining-room together, we found 
our chairs set for us at the table, as usual, and 
between them a high chair. Jane had fol¬ 
lowed her habit of placing the little chair at 
table. We both uttered something like a 
groan, and sat down; but it was some time 
before I could speak audibly enough to ask a 
blessing. She was regularly brought in with 
the dessert, tied into her high chair, and then 
began the chief pleasure of our meal. Her 
little body was kept in exultant action; the 
table was thumped and beaten; and, as the 
things rattled, she felt encouraged to pound 
the more. The oranges excited her desire; 
and, reaching and stretching after them with 
a straining noise in her throat, her face would 
grow red, till her determination was soothed 
by her effort to say “please,” or something 

3 * ( 29 ) 



30 


AGNES. 


which was accepted as an equivalent, when 
her efforts to grasp and hold the orange, which 
was rolled toward her, proving, literally, fruit¬ 
less, she made us laugh at her, she striving to 
laugh as loud as we. 

The chair kept its place during the meal, 
and tears were our meat, till my wife essayed 
to be my comforter, and said : 

“We are not the only parents who have 
gone through such trials.” 

“ How little we have, after all,” said 1 , 66 to 
weep over, compared with many. There are 
trials with living children which are worse 
than losing an infant. But do you not think 
that the death of a dear little child is a very 
peculiar sorrow ? It seems to me that I have 
seen people in more anguish under the loss 
of little children than in any other affliction.” 

“ 0,” said she, “ there is an exquisite ten¬ 
derness in your love for a little child which 
makes the affliction peculiar. After all, it is 
my intense love for Agnes which distresses 


me. 


AGNES. 


31 


“ It is so with me; but I suppose,” said I, 
“ that a mother has feelings toward the child 
when it is gone, which, in some respects, are 
different from those which fathers have; and 
yet, sometimes, I think that I am suffering 
more than you, or that you have more control 
over your feelings than I.” 

“.We must help each other,” said she; “but 
a daughter is a great comfort to a mother, as 
she grows up, and is company for her at 
home. I hardly know what to do with my¬ 
self ; it seems as though I had nothing to do ; 
but that is not right; I mean to feel differ¬ 
ently ; but I suppose we must expect to suffer 
for a time.” 

“ There is 6 a time to embrace, and a time 
to refrain from embracing/ the wise man tells 
us. But,” said I, “ let us resolve on this, that 
we will not let sorrow make us selfish. Some 
people are wholly absorbed for a long 
time in their sorrow, and become unfit for 
everything. Let us try and make our hearts 
expand, instead of curling their affections in- 


32 


AGNES. 


wardly, and shutting themselves up closer 
from others.” 

"It seems to me/’ she said, "as though I 
should greatly love every mother now, and 
her child, and do all in my power to comfort 
those who lose children. I am so glad that I 
do not find it in my heart to murmur against 
God. Some people seem to me to retain an 
unforgiving spirit against God, when He takes 
a child from them.” 

I told her of a mother, who, on losing an 
only child, said to me, "I don't see why I 
should be singled out, and be robbed of my 
only child, when my sisters each have large 
families, and have never lost a child.” My 
blood ran cold to hear the woman talk so. I 
could not help thinking, It may be God loves 
you most, and therefore afflicts you. 0, when 
we part with our perfect confidence in God’s 
goodness and wisdom, we drift, without help 
or hold, we know not where. 

In the course of our talk, I related two 
anecdotes. A former President of the Col- 


AGNES. 


33 


lege in Cambridge, Mass., when lie was pastor 
of a church, called on a lady who had lost a 
child, and who took occasion to say many 
things which manifested a quarrelsome dis¬ 
position, or certainly an unsubmissive state of 
feeling. She "never could be reconciled;” 
she " never would submit to it; ” it was " more 
than human nature could bear.” Her pastor 
silently heard her through, and, after a short 
pause, he quietly said, " Well, madam, what do, 
you propose to do about it ? ” 

An English clergyman was praying at the 
bedside of a sick child, and, after petitioning 
for its recovery, in an earnest manner, he 
said, " But, if Thou hast otherwise ordained, 
and hast purposed to take away this child ” — 
"0 no,” interrupted the mother, "never; 0, 
don’t say so, I cannot have it;” — and so, more 
than once, during the prayer, she protested 
audibly against the sovereign will of God. 
The clergyman was much pained and grieved 
at this want of submission to God’s most holy 
will. He and that mother both lived to see 


34 


AGNES. 


that child perish on the gallows, by the hand 
of the public executioner, at the age of twenty- 
five. 

“ But,” said I, “ we have both thought and 
talked enough about this for the present; and 
so we will postpone our reading, and I will 
take you to ride, this beautiful afternoon.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Before bringing the horse to the door, I 
walked to the Post-office. On my way, I was 
struck with the manner of many of my 
friends and acquaintances. One thing affected 
me. Some, who hardly ever had felt suffi¬ 
ciently acquainted to bow as we passed, 
saluted me as I went by. They knew of my 
affliction; they noticed the weed on my hat; 
they saw my sorrow, probably, in my looks. 
It made me love my fellow-men more than 
ever ; it made me resolve to be kind to peo¬ 
ple in trouble. Some of my acquaintances 
who were formerly free to speak, went by 
with most respectful and solemn looks, unwil¬ 
ling to intrude upon my grief ; while here and 
there a hand would grasp mine, and, with eyes 
full of tears, one and another would say, “ 0, 
my dear sir, I know all that you have gone 


36 


AGNES. 


through, for I have felt the same.” That walk 
did much to change the complexion of my 
feelings; but alas! every now and then I 
thought of that little key, and of my morn¬ 
ing's employment, and I felt as we do when 
the sea swells under our feet. 

As soon as we started on our drive, we met 
young children in the arms of nursery-maids, 
or in wicker carriages. We watched them as 
they passed, as though they were strange or 
most interesting sights. Once I turned the 
horse and rode back, to give my wife a view 
of a little face over a nurse’s shoulder. "Dear 
little thing,” said she, "just the age of Agnes; 
how happy her mother must be.” 

"Are you not glad for her mother?” said I. 

" Surely I am, and love her dearly, without 
knowing her,” she replied. " And one thing I 
can hardly account for—that seeing these 
little things makes me love God more than 
ever.” 

" Now that is a good sign,” said I; "for when 
we love God, I do believe that afflictions make 


AGNES. 


37 


us love him more. We cannot be stationary 
in our feelings toward him in times of great 
sorrow; we either go back from him, and are 
cold toward him, wdiich is a dreadful sign; 
or we cling to him, and say, ‘ Whom have I 
in heaven but thee ?’ ” 

" You praise me sometimes,” said she, "when 
I wish that you would examine me and tell me 
my faults.” 

“ I examined you then,” said I, " and felt 
bound to give the result. We must not deny 
the work of God’s grace in us; that grieves 
him. We must discriminate in our confes¬ 
sions, and be thankful for any right feeling, 
and cherish it.” 

" What were those lines,” said she, “ which 
Dr. D. quoted, in his sermon on New Year’s 
day, about submission to God ? ” 

"I have them in my porte-monnaie; he 
copied them for me, I was so much struck with 
them. He said he quoted them from memory, 
but thought they were nearly right. Please 


4 


38 


AGNES. 


take the reins a moment, and I will read 
them. 

“ * With patience, then, the course of duty run; 

God never does, nor suffers to be done, 

But that which you would do, if you could see 
The end of all events, as well as He.’ ” 

" 0,” said she, giving back the reins, " I feel 
so safe when you are driving ; and that would 
do, by the way, to moralize upon. But the 
thoughts in those lines have done more to sus¬ 
tain me, or, at least, to keep my mind quiet, 
than any uninspired words.” 

"No doubt it is literally true,” said I, “ that, 
if we could have seen all which God saw, we 
should have said, ‘ How desirable it is that 
Agnes should die now.’ We never would 
have taken the responsibility of judging, how¬ 
ever ; and therefore it is well that there is One 
who can, and who is willing to do so, and does 
not spare for our crying.” 

" What are some of the reasons,” said she, 
“ which you can imagine why it was best ? ” 

“ 0, she might have had the seeds of disease 


AGNES. 


39 


in her, which would have made her life a bur¬ 
den,’’ I replied. 

“ Or she might have proved a great trial to 
us in some way,” she added. 

a Perhaps,” said I, “ God wishes to prepare 
us to do great good in the world, and this is 
the preparative. If God seeks to fill us with 
himself, if he desires our love, what an honor 
it is, and what a privilege it is, to receive him, 
even by displacing the dearest object” 

“ Why, there comes a hearse,” said she; and 
true, we were about to meet a funeral. 

The hearse proved to be some way in ad¬ 
vance of the carriages, and was empty; the 
burial had taken place; the friends were re¬ 
turning. 

I brought my horse to a walk; and, as the 
first carriage drove by, a lady in the deepest 
mourning had her face in her handkerchief, 
and was bowed half way down, as in violent 
weeping, while the gentleman at her side, his 
hat off, leaned his head back, his face in like 
manner covered, and he abandoned to grief. 


40 


AGNES. 


Two sweet children, a boy and girl, were on 
the front seat, the curtains rolled up, watching 
the wet gravel which the wheels threw off. 
We hardly noticed the other carriages. 

“There,” said I, “is grief, which perhaps 
they would be willing to exchange for ours.” 

“I hope,” said she, “that they have some 
of the consolations which we possess. What 
do people in such troubles as these do without 
God?” 

“ 0, they try and make the best of it,” said 
I; “ they go into company, get relief in busi¬ 
ness or pleasures, and strive to outlive it; or 
they become melancholy and useless. But 
how much better it is to say, ‘Show me 
wherefore thou contendest with meand be 
more anxious to know what God intends 
and expects, than why the affliction hap¬ 
pened.” 

“ The greatest trial I have had,” said she, 
“in this affliction, is, to think that God is angry 
with me for my sins, and is dealing with me 
in wrath.” 



AGNES. 


41 


“ Do you feel so ? ” said I, “ for I am almost 
glad if you do, because I can tell you some¬ 
thing which greatly helped me. I told Dr. 
D., when he called, the day that Agnes died, 
that my greatest trouble was, that God was 
angry with me for some particular sin, or for 
all my sins.” 

“ What did he say to you ? ” said she. 

a He said that he once preached a sermon 
on that very point. 6 Behavior in trouble’ 
was the subject, and he took this view of it: 
6 Admit the worst; you have been a great sin¬ 
ner, in some particular; now God is dealing 
with you for it. 

“ ‘ What will you do ? Flee from him ? be 
shy of him? feel angry and stubborn? No, 
but thank him that he is willing to take you in 
hand. Brambles,’ he said, ‘ do not get pruned; 
vines are cut, and thinned out.’ Then he took 
your little Bible, which lay near, and read 
three beautiful passages, and turned down the 
leaves for me. 

u One was this: ‘ Surely it is meet to be said 

4 * 


42 


AGNES. 


unto God, I have borne chastisement, I will 
not offend any more.’ 

“ This, he said, is Christian meekness; hum¬ 
bling one’s self under the mighty hand of 
God; and it is our first duty.” 

“I saw those leaves turned down,” said she, 
“ but what were the other passages ? ” 

“ The next, he said, tells us how God feels 
towards us when He afflicts us, and we humble 
ourselves: ‘ I have surely heard Ephraim be 
moaning himself thus: Thou hast chastised 
me, and I was chastised, as a bullock unaccus¬ 
tomed to the yoke ; turn thou me, and I shall 
be turned; for thou art the Lord my God.’ 

“ Then God speaks: 6 Is Ephraim my dear 
son ? is he a pleasant child ? for, since I spake 
against him, I do earnestly remember him 
still; therefore my bowels are troubled for 
him; I will surely have mercy upon him, saith 
the Lord.’ ” 

Turning to witness her smile of gratification 
at such words, I saw her face with tear after 
tear coursing down upon it. 


AGNES. 


43 


But how strangely mixed up are pathos 
and innocent mirth, in all that is natural, and 
in ways, too, which art cannot imitate with¬ 
out seeming unnatural. The horse, failing to 
discriminate between some sound which I 
made with my lips, and a chirrup, started off 
at a good round trot. This left a little less 
shading to our thoughts. 

“ You would not wish to stop at the cem¬ 
etery,” I said, “ on our way home.” 

“ 0 no, not to-day,” she replied; “ it would 
only excite needless grief. Some pleasant 
morning we will ride out there.” 

“Why do you say the morning,” I asked, 
“ rather than the afternoon ? ” 

“ I like to take a bright sunny morning to 
visit a new grave,” she said. “ It helps me bear 
it better. The shadows and the approach of 
evening make me gloomy, and we ought not 
to expose ourselves to temptations in our 
trials. God helps those that help themselves. 
When months are passed, I like the after¬ 


noon. 


44 


AGNES. 


“ How many good thoughts you give me/’ 
said I, “besides cheering my spirits” 

“ I am glad if I do,” said she, “ but please go 
slower.” The horse seemed to be in sympathy 
again with our pleasurable feelings, quicken¬ 
ing his pace, and soon bringing us safely to 
our door. 


CHAPTER V. 


As we sat at breakfast the next morning, I 
remarked to my wife that I felt less pain with 
regard to that little key. I had been made to 
feel, as never before, that God’s claim and his 
right to the child take precedence of ours; that 
the consecration of our children to him is 
eminently a duty as well as a privilege ; and 
that our principles and feelings, in habitually 
performing the duty, ought to have a con¬ 
trolling influence with us, if God sees fit to 
take our children away. One pleasant effect 
of these views was to make me feel that the 
death of our child was not in the main a loss, 
a total loss, as I had regarded it; but that, 
being a j>art of God’s great purposes, her death 
would appear, at some time when it would be 
as desirable to be happy as now, the means 
of some great good. 


( 45 ) 


46 


AGNES. 


So, instead of contriving where to place and 
keep the key of the little coffin, I found my¬ 
self employed in asking what good uses shall 
I derive from it; and this led to the following 
conversation, in one of our afternoon drives: 

" You must give me that little key,” said my 
wife, in one of these excursions. 

"Can you keep it better than I, or with 
less risk of its disturbing your feelings ? ” I 
inquired. 

"You must gratify me in this thing,” said 
she, " without much inquiry. I will promise 
to keep it safely, and make it as useful as I 
can.” 

"Well,” said I, "let us go to the little grave 
together, some day, and take the key with us. 
I should like to see how we shall feel there, in 
view of our affliction, compared with our feel¬ 
ings at the burial.” 

A few months had elapsed since that event, 
the weather had become fine, and so we agreed 
one evening that we would spend the next 
morning at the cemetery. 


AGNES. 


47 


What strange coincidences with the events 
of the day, there sometimes are in onr casual 
selection of passages of Scripture in our morn¬ 
ing devotions! That morning, I opened my 
Bible with my thoughts full of our expected 
visit, and, for a moment or two, hardly looked 
upon the page ; but, on beginning to read, the 
first words which met my eyes w T ere these: 
“And said, Where have ye laid him? They 
say unto him, Lord, come and see.” 

It is as wrong to shape our conduct by pas¬ 
sages of Scripture casually met with, as it is 
to follow dreams, or to trust in coincidences 
of any kind. Sad mistakes are often made by 
interpreting such coincidences in favor of our 
wishes. At the same time, we may receive 
wholesome instruction even from dreams, and 
coincidences ought to make us pause and re¬ 
flect, so giving to sound judgment and dis¬ 
cretion better opportunities for reflection. The 
occurrence of this passage, that morning, in¬ 
volving no question of duty, certainly was 


48 


AGNES. 


the occasion of no liarm ; if it made me reflect 
how the Holy Spirit, who indited the Bible, 
is pleased at times to be with us when we 
read it, and apply it to our circumstances. It 
is wrong to look upon passages of Scripture as 
omens, but we may derive comfort and in¬ 
struction from them at pleasure. This pas¬ 
sage made me think that Jesus feels an 
interest in the graves of our children and 
friends; that he looks down and watches all 
our dust, if we sleep in Jesus; and therefore I 
felt that he would accompany us to the grave 
of our child. 

As my wife was about to take her seat in 
the carriage, and was putting on her gloves in 
the parlor, I asked: 

“ What passage of Scripture do you think 
1 have just seen which is applicable to you ? ” 

“ Please tell me,” said she, without lifting 
her eyes. 

“ 6 She goeth unto the grave to weep there.’ ” 

After a moment’s pause, she replied: “ Mary 
little knew what a scene she was going to 


AGNES. 


49 


witness there. Perhaps her Friend will go 
with us.” 

"I have invited Him,” said I. “ ‘Lord, come 
and see.’” 

“ And so,” said I, as we drove along, “ we are 
going to the grave in company with the 
Resurrection and the Life. What a privilege 
to have a grave, if it secures for us the special 
presence of Jesus.” 

“ I was struck with the remark, in the ser¬ 
mon last Sabbath,” said she, “ that, of the two 
who went to heaven without dying, God’s own 
Son was not one of them.” 

“But here we are,” said I, “at the stopping- 
place nearest to the path.” 

We walked along over ground where no 
foot seemed lately to have trodden on the nu¬ 
merous ant-hills where the busy little em¬ 
mets were at work. We spoke of superior 
beings compassionating us, as we did these lit¬ 
tle creatures. We stepped over and among 
them as well as we could; for we had feelings 
of tenderness toward everything. A robin 


5 


50 


AGNES. 


ran across our path, with his head up, and a 
worm dangling from his bill. The long 
branches of the larch trees bowed quietly un¬ 
der the pressure of a pleasant morning wind. 
The stones, with their inscriptions, showing 
their manifold histories of sorrow, seemed to 
speak to us like people on a wreck saying to 
some more impassioned sufferer, Think, too, of 
us! Our hearts beat hard, we had to summon 
new strength, as we caught the first sight 
of the dear little mound. We leaned on the 
fence, and wept, apart. 

“ But,” said I, holding up the steps of my 
companion, as we came nearer, “ I cannot 
think of her as here. Have you not put 
away her little cloak, and other things of 
hers, in the camphor trunk ? ” 

u Yes,” said she; “ why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because,” said I, 

“ ‘ Graves are but beds where flesh till morning sleeps, 

Or chests, where God awhile our garments keeps.’ 

“ There will be a time when this will 
cease to be an affliction. We shall see at last 


AGNES. 


51 


that it was one of those ‘all things’ which 
work together for good to them that love 
God.” 

“ I try hard,” she said, “ to forget myself 
and my affliction, and to consider how I may 
best please God, and honor him in my trial. 
I do not wish to be comforted, but to be use¬ 
ful ; to be made better.” 

“ That is the truest comfort also,” said I. 

“ We are very insignificant things,” said she, 
“ and our happiness or suffering ought not to 
absorb our thoughts; but, how shall Christ be 
magnified in us, by life or by death?” 

“What an object,” said I, “that is to live 
for! How ennobling; and how small does 
selfish sorrow appear ! ” 

“We are flesh and blood,” said she, “and 
must weep and suffer under our trials.” 

“It would be unnatural if we did not,” I 
replied. “God expects us to cry when he 
binds us. I went to see your friend, L., you 
know, after her husband was brought home 
dead. A good woman came to meet me at 


52 


AGNES. 


the door, and said: 6 0, Mr. M., you know what 
sorrow is; do come up and try to stop L/s 
crying; she has been taking on so for six or 
eight hours/ L. heard this, as we entered the 
room. ‘ I cannot help it/ said she. ‘ 0, Mr. 
M., what shall I do ? ’ ‘ Cry as much as you 

please, dear L./ said I, ‘ it will be a relief to 
you. Do not try to check it. I am glad to 
see that you can cry. David’s Psalms are, 
many of them, nothing but spells of crying. 
Jesus groaned in spirit twice as he went to 
the grave of Lazarus. I am sure you have 
enough to cry about/ ” 

“ What effect did it have upon her ? ” asked 
my wife. 

“ At first,” said 1 , 66 she wept as when a cloud 
bursts. I sat still a few moments, knowing: it 
was only the reaction from her long effort to 
control her feelings. At length she grew calm; 
and, when I left her, she said, ‘ Well, I do feel 
that underneath are the everlasting arms/ ” 

“ 0,” said my wife, “ what a world of sor¬ 
row, and to do good in, this is; and I feel as 


AGNES. 


53 


though I wanted to go home and find out 
every afflicted heart and be kind to it. Did 
you bring the little key with you ?” 

I produced it. How much my feelings 
had been mitigated since I drew it from my 
pocket the evening after the funeral! We 
looked at it with composure. He who turneth 
the shadow of death into the morning, and 
maketh the day dark with night, had been 
gracious to me. " I look upon that key,” said 
Agnes, " as a sort of ordinance, a symbol; it 
represents a world of thought and feeling.” 

" That is a good idea,” said I, " and let us 
improve upon it. I begin to think that, when 
I see this little key hereafter, it will be with 
me as it is said of Hannah, ‘ Her countenance 
was no more sad.’ I mean to make a good 
use of the little key. I should love to join 
with you, some evening, and put down in a 
little book our thoughts and feelings in con¬ 
nection with it. We shall read it, hereafter, 
with great satisfaction.” 

"You will forgive me.” said I ; "for not having 

5 * 


54 


AGNES. 


told you that this is not my first visit here 
since the funeral. I have been here several 
times, but I did not wish to try your feelings 
by alluding to it. I came out here once when 
there were two feet of snow in this lot. This 
little grave was hidden.” 

“ 0, how beautiful and sad that must have 
looked,” she said. 

“ It was the first time that I came, after the 
funeral. I was glad not to see the little grave. 
I knew it was there, safe, beneath that beauti¬ 
ful mantle.” 

“What passages of Scripture did it make 
you think of?” she inquired; “you are so apt 
to see meanings in them which I do not.” 

I said to her, “ I thought of this: 6 He shall 
cover thee with his feathers, and under his 
wings shalt thou trust.’ I felt that the snow 
was a great white wing spread over Agnes. 
The snow was wreathed around this silver- 
leaved maple, like a calla lily around its pistil. 
How white and pure it was: 


-the farm’d snow 

That’s bolted by the northern blast thricd o’er.’ 




AGNES. 


55 


a I could not help weeping as I looked on 
those exquisitely beautiful curves of the 
snow, and I thought that the God who 
wrought such things would not, could not, 
deal with those who love him otherwise than 
in love and wisdom” 

“ I wish that I had seen it,” said she. 

“ You could not have waded here,” I replied. 
“ And now here the grass is green, and the sods 
are putting out fresh spires on the mound. 
These changes are but ‘ the varied God. The 
rolling year is full of Thee.’ Summer, autumn, 
winter, spring, will come in their turn and 
visit this little grave. God has a treasure 
here, which he is keeping for a great purpose. 

“Last week, I was here again. This one 
thought absorbed me: The will of God is 
better than child, or any other possession. 
Had it been referred to me whether Agnes 
should be restored to life, I would, on no ac¬ 
count, have decided the question, but would 
have referred it back again. I feel so still. 

“Let me read you some lines which I wrote 
here last week, and then we will go: 


56 


AGNES. 


AT MY CHILD’S GRAVE. 

Beneath this grassy mound 
Sweet Agnes lies; 

She cannot hear a sound, — 

Closed are her eyes. 

Her little form is mouldering back to clay; 

With small and great she waits the judgment day. 

God’s watchful eye beheld 
This sparrow fall; 

By Him an infant’s hairs 
Are numbered all. 

God ! in thy dreadful majesty, how mild ! 

O Christ! the Father, with Thee, loves a little child. 

She, on her wondrous way, 

Looks not behind; 

Light sweetly breaks all day 
Over her mind. 

At the last trump she ’ll come, with angel size, 

Down to this grave to watch the body rise. 

What shall the body be ? — 

Now, like a grain, 

It dies, to bring forth fruit 
And live again. 

This little seed shall yield a shock of corn ; 

Out from this grave a form like Christ’s shall greet the soul’s 

return. 




AGNES. 


57 


“ I must talk with you,” she said, “ about the 
doctrine in the last stanzas, as we are riding 
home.” 

“Last March,” said I, “it did not seem possible 
that I could ever go away from this little grave 
with so much peace. I feel that we have left 
Agnes in heaven, rather than in the grave.” 

“Now please tell me,” said she, “what 
makes you think that children do not remain 
children in heaven, as so many think that they 
do.” 

“ It strikes me,” said I, “ as a very earthly 
idea, that children are to be kept forever in 
infancy and childhood in heaven, as though 
we should need their childhood there to make 
us happy as it does here. And why are we 
to suppose that the mind of a child will not 
expand in heaven, as well as here ? Besides, 
it seems like doing them a wrong, to keep 
them in a childish condition forever.” 

« 0,1 cannot think so,” said she. “ To be a 
happy child in heaven forever, I think must 
be as real bliss as to be a full-grown mind. 


58 


AGNES. 


How children in heaven must be loved! How 
interesting they must be to angels! What 
exquisite pleasure a child has! I feel less and 
less the power of knowledge to make us 
happy. ‘He that increaseth knowledge in- 
creaseth sorrow/ Your doctrine may be true 
for other reasons, but not, I think, because it 
will be any wrong to a child to keep it a child.” 

“I suppose you feel,” said I, “that you 
would as soon be a member of a flower-gar¬ 
den as of a forest.” 

“ Certainly; how much more pleasure I get 
from a calla lily than from a buttonwood,” said 
she, laughingly. “ But that is hardly fair,” she 
continued. “We cannot properly compare 
flowers and trees, and give the preference to 
one over the other. Each has its place and use. 
Now I feel that children are to heaven what 
flowers and birds are to nature, here; and I 
want to have them remain so.” 

“That is woman’s theology,” said I. “You 
wish to find dear little Agnes a sweet little 
child, twenty or forty years hence, when you 
enter heaven.” 


AGNES. 


59 


“ I love to think so,” said she. 

“ It is a hard task,” said I, “ to argue against 
a mother, with so much on her side that is 
beautiful and touching, and especially when I 
know so little about it, after all.” 

“ Then, perhaps,” said she, “ you had better 
be diffident, and not say much till you know 
more. I think you will have the mothers 
against you.” 

“ Then I should beat a retreat, certainly,” 
said 1 , 66 and go into camp; for I should hate 
to fulfil what Milton says about a woman rear 
soning with men: 

«‘ In argument with men, a woman ever 
Goes by the worse, whatever be her cause.’ ” 

“ We should refute that in this case,” said 
she, “as in many other instances, especially 
since we all know so little about the subject 
for we should be hard pushed on either side to 
prove what we suppose. But I presume that 
it is the general belief, is it not, that the soul 
develops in heaven, as on earth ? ” 

“ Analogy seems to favor it,” said I, “ cer- 


60 


AGNES. 


tainly; but some people seem to think that 
we are to be re-constituted into families, in 
heaven, and that parents will gather their 
children about them, and have what they 
call happy homes. Therefore they like the 
thought of infants and young children remain¬ 
ing such. 

" But,” said I, “ a father and mother, whose 
children grew up and left them, would have a 
solitary home, unless their children should all 
return • but I certainly should not consent to 
your leaving me to live with your father and 
mother. More than this, would you rather 
have Agnes for a beautiful little plaything, or 
see her developed into a perfect form, and all 
her powers and faculties in full bloom, capable 
of appreciating everything ? Parents are wil¬ 
ling, here, to send then’ children away from 
them to school, as a duty they owe their chil¬ 
dren.” 

"That is because they will, of necessity, 
grow up, and therefore must be educated,” 
said she. 


AGNES. 


61 




“ But no judicious parent, apart from this/’ 
said I, “ would prefer to keep a child in a 
juvenile state, for the parent’s own pleasure, 
rather than cultivate and inform its mind. 
Growth is probably the law of heaven, as of 
earth,—growth without decay.” 

“ But what a loss it will be,” she replied, 
“ when all the children from earth are grown 
up in heaven. I dread to think, for instance, 
that the time will come when the youngest 
person whom I shall see from earth, will be a 
few thousand years old.” 

“ ‘ It doth not yet appear what we shall be/ 
said I. “ All that we can say is, ‘ Thou hast 
created all things, and for thy pleasure they 
are and were created.’ In God’s own way we 
shall each fulfil some part in his great empire 
and plan.” 

“ Well,” said she, “we will take the little key, 
and sit down and contrive what to do with it, 
and how it shall do us good, and do good by 
us.” 


6 


CHAPTER YI. 


It had rained very hard all day, a few 
weeks after this, when, as we sat at tea, Agnes 
said: 

"No one will come in this evening, and 
now let ns have that conversation about the 
key.” 

It was soon brought down from her pri¬ 
vate drawer, in a tortoise-shell card-case, wdiere 
she had kept it for some time. I had writing 
materials before me, and a memorandum book, 
which I proceeded to dedicate to its use, by 
writing these words on the first page : " The 
Key of a Little Coffin ” 

"Now,” said I, "let us proceed somewhat after 
this method: I will name some use, or reflec¬ 
tion, or purpose, suggested by the little thing; 
and, when we have discussed it, I will write it 

( 62 ) 


AGNES. 


63 


down here. Then it shall be your turn to 
propose a sentiment.” 

“ I fear,” said she, u that you will have to 
furnish most of the thoughts. But, if you 
will begin, I will do my best. When we 
read it over, we will recollect that it did not 
sound so much like speeches when we talked, 
as I fear it will from the book.” 

Husband. “ One thing, then, which I love to 
think of in connection with the little key, is 
this: It can never be used for this purpose 
again. 

“I feel so glad that this is not a sorrow 
which is in anticipation. We have passed 
through the cloud, and through the sea, and 
the waters themselves have been a wall to us 
on either side, the affliction itself defending 
us from many temptations, and constituting a 
hiding-place for us. I have been instructed, 
and, I trust, made better; but I am so glad 
that I am not to pass through this trial again. 
It is finished, and God has given us this key, 
as it were, with those sacred words. I will 


G4 


AGNES. 


record this, therefore, for a beginning. Will 
you give me a thought ?” 

Wife. “ It is an emblem and pledge of re¬ 
opening. We use keys not merely to lock 
up. You seem to have regarded this key as 
a seal upon the stone. This is true, but let 
us also think of it as an emblem and a pledge 
of re-admission to her. She is ours still. She 
may have ten thousand instructors in heaven, 
but we are her parents. It seems to me a 
great honor to be a parent of a redeemed 
soul. How much nearer this brings us to a 
likeness with God than angels approach! You 
asked me, as we came from the funeral, 
whether I regretted all the sickness and sor¬ 
row which Agnes cost. To have a child in 
heaven is worth all that a parent can suffer. 
And now, the keenness of affliction having 
passed by, this key will seem to us like a hope 
which is laid up for us in heaven.” 

Husband. “ This suggests a thought to me. 
The little key is a token of possession. She 
is our precious child. Her past history, the 


AGNES. 


65 


memory of her, the happiness she afforded us, 
the love to each other of which she was the 
occasion, the beautiful, hallowed thoughts 
w T hich we shall continue to have about her, 
are a possession which no one can take from 
us. She was God’s gift, and she is ours still. 
He has placed her away for a season, but has 
given us the key, and it will make us feel that 
we have a child. When people say to us, 
‘Have you children?’ we shall answer,‘Yes, 
one — in heaven.’” 

Wife. “ It will open a way for us to sor¬ 
rowing hearts. How much good we may now 
do in comforting and instructing others. No 
one knows what this affliction is till they have 
experienced it. I used to think I knew all 
about it, while condoling with bereaved moth¬ 
ers ; but now I see my mistake. How easy 
it seemed then to be reconciled, by thinking 
that God did it, and that the child was better 
off, or a great many such true and good things; 
but now I see, that one may have every con¬ 
solation, and still the affliction continue. I 
6 * 


66 


AGNES. 


used to think otherwise. Now I see that one 
who loses an arm may have all Christian con¬ 
solations; and yet, when he is reminded every 
few moments that he has but one arm, it is 
no less a calamity than though he had no con¬ 
solation, only he can bear it better.” 

Husband . “I must read you a passage from 
Shakspeare, if you will excuse me a moment 
to bring the book from the library. 

“The subject seems to be, ‘ Counsel of no 
weight in misery’: 

“ * I pray thee cease thy counsel, 

Which falls into mine ears as profitless 
As water in a sieve; give me not counsel, 

Nor let no comforter delight mine ear, 

But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. 

Bring me a father that so loved his child, 

Whose joy of her is so overwhelm’d like mine, 

And bid him speak of patience, 

Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, 

And let it answer every strain for strain; 

As thus for thus, and such a grief for such. 

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard, 

Cry, sorrow, wag! and hem, when he should groan, 

Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk 
With candle wasters,—bring him yet to me, 


AGNES. 


67 


And I of him will gather patience. 

But there is no such man. For, brother, men 
Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief 
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, 

Their counsel turns to passion, which before 
Would give preceptial medicine to rage, 

Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, 

Charm ache with air, and agony with words. 

No, no ; ’t is all men’s office to speak patience 
To those that w r ring under the load of sorrow: 

But no man’s virtue, nor sufficiency, 

To be so moral, wffien he shall endure 

The like himself; therefore give me no counsel; 

My griefs cry louder than advertisement.’ ” * 

Wife. “ Some people seem fond of preaching 
to others in trouble; but a little sympathy, a 
drawing near to one, a kind word, or look, or 
token of remembrance, how it holds us up! 
It is not so much what is said, as the manner, 
indicating the disposition, and making you feel 
that you are not forsaken. ” 

Husband. “ Why do you suppose the Saviour 
took those three men with him when he was 
groins: into Gethsemane ? He left them at the 
entrance.” 


* Much Ado about Nothing, Act. V. 


68 


AGNES. 


Wife. “I suppose he loved to feel that he 
had friends near. How natural this is! ” 
Husband. "And what a beautiful idea it 
gives us of the human sympathies of Jesus, 
touched with the feeling of our infirmities!” 

Wife . "But there is one way of show¬ 
ing sympathy, which I desire to avoid, for I 
suffered from it more than I can tell. Calls 
on a bereaved person are, for the most part, 
agonizing, unless there be great intimacy be- 
' tween the parties. In other cases, there is a 
questioning, and a moralizing, and a probing 
into all the secret, painful parts of the afflic¬ 
tion, and a rehearsing of afflictions which the 
visitor herself had passed through, which does 
much to keep the wound from healing over. 
I am resolved that, unless I am on very inti¬ 
mate terms, or in a peculiar relation to a be¬ 
reaved person, I will express my sympathy 
merely by some message, or little gift, or act 
of remembrance, and not by being one of 
twenty or thirty people to make the poor suf¬ 
ferer go over the bitter tale again and again, 


AGNES. 


69 


or to make her sit and endure a stifi^ cere¬ 
monious visit.” 

Husband. “ Some people, like, and even 
expect, such things. To me it is almost 
so many bereavements. But I had almost for¬ 
gotten one more thought, which the little key 
has suggested. It is given to us by Him who 
has the keys of death. This is one of them. 
0, how many such keys he has! He shutteth 
and no man openeth. Did we not know that 
he loves us, should we not feel that he 
mocked us, and that for an egg he had given 
us a scorpion? ‘Take this key/ he seems to 
say. ‘I have taken Agnes away from you. 
No one will question my right to do so. She 
was mine before she was yours, and after she 
became yours. The number of her months 
was with me. Take this key. Keep it as a 
mark of my sovereignty, and a badge of your 
unquestioning submission.’ Can you assent 
to this, my love, and shall I write it down ?” 

Wife. “I cannot be stationary in my love 
to God in times of affliction. I must part 


70 


AGNES. 


with him, or love him more than ever. I 
choose the latter. This is a new unfolding of 
his character to us. We cannot, therefore, 
feel toward God precisely as we did before. 
Now, if I question his perfect rectitude and 
love, I become an atheist; instead of this, I 
will love him more than ever, in proportion 
as he reveals himself, even though it be in 
affliction.—Are you waiting for me to propose 
a thought ? One thing I wish that this little 
key would do for me. It must lock up un¬ 
pleasant recollections.” 

Husband. “ May I ask, before they are 
locked up, that you will let me know some of 
them ? ” 

Wife. "We have spoken of them, you 
know, several times. I find myself dwelling 
on second causes, and making myself need¬ 
lessly unhappy. If we had only sent for the 
physician on the first day that Agnes was sick? 
instead of letting our neighbor H. give her 
that medicine. It weakened her, and made 
her less able to bear the disease, which other- 


AGNES. 


71 


wise she might have thrown off. But 0, that 
thoughtless Phoebe, putting sheets on her crib 
which had just come from ironing without be¬ 
ing aired! The doctor said that it did harm. 
Besides, I never felt sure that, the night before 
Agnes died, the girl did not give her the 
wrong medicine. 

“ The doctor looked surprised when he saw 
that the new phial, which he ordered the even¬ 
ing before, had not been uncorked the next 
morning. Phoebe says she gave her no medi¬ 
cine ; I shall always feel that she gave her those 
powerful drops, by mistake. But then, I say, 
why dwell on these things? We did the best 
that we knew how to do at the time. If the 
thing itself was appointed to happen, so were 
the means to produce it — and let all these 
things go into the grave. Only we shall learn 
wisdom by experience.” 

Husband. “ I will gladly change this topic, 
and say: I will not part with this key, and 
yet I cheerfully give my child to God. 

66 1 heard some one say, in a sermon, that 


72 


AGNES. 


an English lady had a fine flower on a very 
rare plant, with which she was so enraptured 
that she wished the queen might have it; and, 
being on suitable terms with the sovereign, 
she had it conveyed to her. I think it is not 
that God had the right to my child, that 
makes me submissive; I love him, and, if he 
wishes for my child, he shall have her, and 
me, too. But no money, no persuasions, could 
get this key from me.” 

Wife. “ Do let me name one thing more, 
lest I forget it — if you had finished. The 
little key is a symbol of individuality and 
separateness. Sometimes I lose Agnes in a 
great crowd of children in heaven. Our min¬ 
ister said, that probably more have gone to 
heaven in childhood, than in any other period 
of life. ‘ Where is our little girl ? ’ I find myself 
saying. She is not lost in the crowd. Special 
assignments have been made with regard to 
her; she is in the hands of those, who, if I could 
see them, would make me feel perfectly happy 


AGNES. 


73 


in leaving her with them. Her grave is a 
separate one. No other grave on earth can be 
confounded with it in our thoughts. This 
is the key to nothing but her little coffin. 
And now is there not as much individuality 
and separateness in the love and care of God 
for her ? ” 

Husband. “ Christ said of little ones, ‘ That 
in heaven their angels do always behold the 
face of my Father which is in heaven.’ ” 

Wife. “ Pray, what does that mean ? for I 
never understood it.” 

Husband. “ It means, I have been told, that 
angels who minister to these little ones are 
not inferior beings, but ‘ presence angelsthey 
are deemed worthy of the chiefest care, and 
are in charge of those who can say, as the an¬ 
gel said to Mary, ‘ I am Gabriel, that stand in 
the presence of God.’ 

a Your thought about individuality and sep¬ 
arateness makes me think of this: Suppose 
that every little coffin had a little key, 
trimmed with white ribbon, and that they 


AGNES. 


74 

should all be hung up in our sight. What a 
wilderness of them there would be! We 
should be unwilling to attach undue import¬ 
ance to our little treasure; we should say, 
Tens of thousands have suffered all that we 
have suffered; and, at the same time, God has 
as distinct a knowledge of our loss, and of our 
dear child, as though she were the only ob¬ 
ject of his care.—Let me say one thing more; 
I believe it is my turn: I am admitted by this 
key to companionship with all who have chil¬ 
dren in heaven. 

“ Now I do feel, after all, that there is some 
honor and privilege in being selected by 
Christ to contribute an infant soul to his me¬ 
diatorial crown. I am glad that I had a flower 
in my garden so precious that the Lord of all 
wished to transplant it for me to his own spe¬ 
cial care and love. A peasant is pleased 
when a nobleman or his lady stops at his gate 
and asks for a slip from some beautiful plant. 
I look upon a family where there are many 
children, and say to myself: ‘ You have no 


AGNES. 


75 


dear little representative of your number in 
heaven. You, parents, have never had the 
privilege of sending a sweet envoy to the 
court of God. You would not choose to send 
one, nor would we choose it for you. But, 
had God seen fit to take some little child of 
yours to himself, I feel that you would, in 
time, be glad, and at death your meeting with 
it would have a rapture which would make 
you bless God that he took away your little 
one to enhance your joy/ Now, this little 
key says to us, ‘ You belong to that favored 
band who, at their coming, will receive their 
own with usury/ The key is a decoration, a 
badge of membership. I am glad to belong 
to such a communion, even at such cost, I 
have a child at court. She is a maid of 
honor. 0 Saviour! we thank thee for num¬ 
bering us with those who are counted worthy 
of this.” 

Wife. “ It is time to finish, for the present, 
I suppose; but one more thought occurs to 


76 


AGNES. 


me, and ; as you began, I will conclude: May 
I take this key with me, if I go astray. 

“How God can punish us ! What arrows he 
has in his quiver ! How he knows where to 
strike ! The little key says to us: 6 Go thy 
way, sin no more, lest a worse thing happen 
unto thee.’ Sad is it to think that in the 
course of time we may depart from God,— 
some wordly influences may take our hearts 
away from Christ; we may become lovers of 
pleasure; temptations, through prosperity, 
may ensnare both of us; we know not 
what we are capable of; affliction has no 
power in itself to keep us in the path of 
duty. If we ever wander, may a sudden, ac¬ 
cidental sight of this little key remind us 
how perishable are earthly joys, how fading 
its honors, how insecure its possessions, how 
entirely God can dispose of us; and, more¬ 
over, that we were never so safe, and never 
happier, than when we were in affliction. Let 
us pray to God that he will use this little key 


AGNES. 


77 


to lock up our way, if we should seem to 
wander from him. I really feel afraid to come 
out of trouble. A season of affliction is freed 
from many a snare. What was it that Bun- 
yan’s pilgrims said when they came into the 
valley of humiliation, and fell down and kissed 
the flowers of the place? It was this, I 
think: 

“ ‘ lie that is down needs fear no fall, 

He that is low, no pride ; 

He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his guide.’” 

Husband. “ When we have felt and said all 
that is right and proper, the affliction remains. 
It was intended as an affliction, and, as one 
said, ‘ This is a lamentation, and shall be for a 
lamentation.’ Every now and then I find 
myself thinking how old Agnes would have 
been at the present time. There is no such 
relaxation to a weary man as a little child. 
How often I have hastened home from busi¬ 
ness meetings, just for the sake of taking that 
little child into my arms and forgetting every- 


7# 


78 


AGNES. 


thing in watching it. A parent, in the play, 
says of a little child, 

“ ‘ He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter, 

And, with his varying childness, cures 
Thoughts that would thick my blood.’ ” 

Wife. “ 0, what a loss it is! But ‘ the 
Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, 
blessed be the name of the Lord/ ” 

Husband. u Let us agree that to-morrow we 
will begin and see what good we can do, 
under the influence of what we have expe- 
rienced.’ , 

Wife. “I have marked out several plans, 
and at some future time we will discuss 
them.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


Tile anniversary of Agnes’ death and funeral 
arrived. We passed through the first of 
these, sustained by the thought that the burial 
had not transpired, thus deceiving ourselves 
with one of those stratagems in which the af¬ 
flicted are only less ingenious than the insane. 
And when the anniversary of the funeral 
came, I said to myself, ‘ She was not buried 
till the 10th, — this is Friday, the same day 
of the week, indeed, but it is not the 10th.’ 
When the 10th came, we said, ‘ This is not the 
day; she w r as not buried on Saturday, but 
yesterday was the true anniversary.’ Such 
was my weakness. 

We had looked forward to these days with 
sad apprehensions, and wished that they were 
past Still, we endeavored to go through 
them, submitting to the mighty Hand that ap- 

( 79 ) 


80 


AGNES. 


points times and seasons, and does not change 
the order of nature for any of his creatures. 
We knew that we should suffer, and we re¬ 
garded it as an appointed part of our trial. 

So we repaired to the room where the dear 
child died, and, as the hour arrived, never to 
be forgotten, we praj^ed together, and amidst 
tears and interrupted utterances we acknowl¬ 
edged the perfect right which God had to be¬ 
reave us; confessed that anything short of end¬ 
less misery was less than our deserts; rejoiced 
that we had a child in heaven, one treasure 
where no thief approacheth; gave thanks for 
the support afforded us in our trial, and espe¬ 
cially that it had made us in any degree use¬ 
ful to others; and we prayed earnestly, and 
above all things, that God would fulfil his 
purposes in this affliction, whatever they 
might be. 

That evening I brought from the post-office 
a letter to my wife, from her most intimate 
and endeared female friend, who had gone to 
a distant part of the world, with her husband, 


AGNES. 


81 


to reside for several years. The letter proved 
to be the lady’s journal for several months, 
and it was dated a year ago and upon the day 
that Agnes died. She began by saying: 
“ My dearest Agnes, I know not why it is, but 
I feel an irrepressible impulse to begin a jour¬ 
nal for your entertainment. So I date my 
long letter forthwith, but 0, what events may 
betide us before this reaches you! ” The let¬ 
ter was a most entertaining account of a 
lady’s experience and observations in a city 
on the other side of the globe, interspersed 
with narratives of short voyages and travels. 
Of course, it furnished food for thought and 
conversation till late that night, bringing tears 
of joy at some girlish reminiscences of school 
days, and other tears at the congratulations 
which it bore on hearing of the birth of our 
child. 

“ Dated,” said my wife, “ the day that Agnes 
died, and received on the next anniversary; 
how interesting!” 

“ I suppose,” said I, “ some people would 


82 


AGNES. 


wonder at us; but I choose, at the risk of be¬ 
ing wrong, to see and acknowledge a good, 
kind Hand in such coincidences. I am not 
unwilling to believe that the all-seeing God, 
looking at once on us and on your friend the 
other side of the globe, devised this coinci¬ 
dence, and has brought it about for our com¬ 
fort, ‘He stayeth his rough wind in the day 
of his east wind.’ 6 But I am poor and needy, 
yet the Lord thinketh upon me/ ” 

“What an idea it gives us,” said she, “of 
the omnipresence of God!” 

“ And how it illustrates,” I observed, “ the 
ease with which God plans different events far 
asunder in time and space, and brings them 
together, matched and finished, in his ap¬ 
pointed time. Just think of what it was nec¬ 
essary for Him to do, on the waves and with 
the winds, and by means of the numerous 
conveyances and the scores of men who had 
charge of them, and of the mails, if it were 
his purpose to bring that letter to our door, 


AGNES. 


83 


not yesterday, nor to-morrow, but on this 
anniversary.” 

a If He did all this for our little comfort,” 
said she, “ it makes me say, as the people did 
of Jesus at the grave of Lazarus, ‘ Could not 
this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, 
have caused that even this man should not 
have died ? 9 Surely, He could have spared 
Agnes to us, and he was willing to do so, but 
his reluctance to make us suffer was over¬ 
ruled by higher considerations. This letter, 
coming to-night, persuades me to feel more 
than ever that God is as kind and good in our 
trials as in our blessings, if we love him.” 

But the anniversary of the burial arrived, 
— the day of the week, that Friday, — and 
we wept apart much of the time, and when 
we were together, we each made an effort, 
now and then, to break the silence, for we 
were so troubled that we could not speak. 
After tea, I went to the post-office, with the 
intention of returning soon and spending the 
evening at home. 


84 


AGNES. 


Who would have thought that I could stay 
away till ten o’clock that night ? 

I returned at that hour and found my wife 
waiting for me in the parlor. A book which 
she had been reading lay on the table before 
her, and with it her handkerchief, which, as I 
passed round, I involuntarily took up to catch 
from it a very rare perfume, which a friend 
from Malabar had lately given her. But un¬ 
derneath the handkerchief lay the tortoise 
shell card-case. 

“ 0, what have you been doing with this ? ” 
said I. 

“ Having some very profitable thoughts 
over it,” she replied. “ But come and tell 
me what has happened to you, for it must 
be something strange to have detained you 
all the evening ” 

I held the card-case in my hand, and no 
doubt I used some sign of endearment toward 
it, for I could not help exclaiming, “ 0 what 
a blessing is a peaceful death, an honored 


AGNES. 


85 


burial, an innocent grave.” I felt happy to 
see that little key. 

"What makes you feel so happy?” said 
she. " Pray tell me where you have been, 
and what has happened to you.” 

"I have just come from the jail,” said I. 

In her endeavors to comfort those that 
mourn, my wife heard that a youth who had 
been tried for his life on a charge of murder, 
and was brought to our city jail for safer cus¬ 
tody, was the son of a woman whom she had 
once or twice employed in household work. 
She had become intemperate, through domes¬ 
tic trouble, and the son had killed his com¬ 
panion at a gambling table. He was now 
awaiting his execution. My wife had inter¬ 
ested our minister, Dr. D., in the young man, 
so that, as soon as he was lodged in our jail, 
the clergyman sought and obtained permission 
to visit him. 

The result of his visits was, that the youth 
gave signs of penitence, and had embraced 
s 


86 


AGNES. 


the offers of pardon through the sufferings 
and death of Christ. 

“On my way to the post-office/’ said I, 
“ Dr. D. met me at his door, and told me that 
he was going to the cell, and asked me to go 
with him. I asked Mrs. D. to come and spend 
the evening with you, till I returned. I pre¬ 
sume that company detained her. 

“You know that to-morrow is the day 
fixed for the execution. Through the small 
holes, over the doors of the cells, we saw here 
and there a face of one and another who 
had been aroused by the entrance of the 
jailer after dark. Michael, your poor boy, was 
sitting on the side of his cot-bedstead, in his 
shirt-sleeves, as we entered, when he shook 
hands with Dr. D., looking at the same time 
at me, and, as I could not but think, with the 
thought flashing through his mind whether I 
had come with any message of hope or relief. 

“I saw a silver can on his rough table, 
and took it up, thinking that it looked fa¬ 
miliar, and there was the inscription, ‘ Agnes : 


AGNES. 


87 


from her Grandmother/ He saw me looking 
at it, and said that a kind lady had sent 
him some broth in it. Did you send it in 
the can purposely?” 

“I was looking for something else,” said 
she, “and saw the can; and the contrast 
between Michael’s mother and myself, as to 
our children, struck me so, that I could not 
help sending it as an acknowledgment of 
God’s mercy to me.” 

“ As I held the can in my hands,” said I, 
“the same thought occurred to me, and I 
said to myself, 6 1 will take the cup of sal¬ 
vation, and call on the name of the Lord.’ 
I told Michael that I knew the lady, and 
this was a sufficient introduction. 

“ Dr. D. began to talk with him about the 
Lord Jesus Christ, and opened to him, as he 
observed he had often done before, the great 
truth of the gospel, free and full remission 
of sins to every one who accepts and pleads 
Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, as the sacrifice 
for sin. i Michael,’ said he, ‘ what could you 


88 


AGNES. 


do now without an atoning Saviour, one that 
has suffered for you? Your day of grace is 
nearly out; you cannot live to atone for 
your own sins, even if it were possible ever to 
do it. But the Son of God has answered all 
the demands of justice for you by bearing 
your sins in his own body on the tree. Man 
cannot justly pardon you; he cannot make 
any substitution for your punishment which 
would answer the ends of justice, as your own 
death will do. But God can, as it respects all 
your sins, and now you are going to the bar 
of God before this time to-morrow, pleading, 
‘Who is he that condemneth? It is Christ 
that died.’ ” 

Wife. “How did Michael look? Was he 
crying ? ” 

Husband. “ I shall never forget his posture, 
his action, his emphasis, as, with his head on 
one side, his neck bare, and in his stockinged 
feet, he lifted up his head and said: 

“ ‘ Dr. D., I am such a sinner that nothing 
makes me feel safe only that God’s own Son 


AGNES. 


89 


died for me. I was telling the turnkey, ‘It’s 
all the same as God. He was God. I can’t 
puzzle it out, only I know he was God — fum¬ 
bling over his testament and reading John 
1 : 1 ,— 6 And the Word was God.’ The fact is,’ 
said he, 6 1 am afraid I sent Dick Ross to 
misery; he was as wicked a sinner as I am, 
and that’s as bad as can be; and now I 
ought to go there, too; it seems as though I 
could n’t get along, no how, without going 
there, too; it’s so just, you see, for I can’t pay 
for it no way nor no shape ; it is n’t worth the 
first red cent all I can ever do, and I made 
up my mind to go and suffer, till you told 
me how God could save me, Christ wanted 
to save me, and Christ suffered what would 
have been the same as hell for me. Now 
you ’re sure, Doctor, that this is all so, I sup¬ 
pose — and this gentleman, does he think so 
too? — My goodness,’ said he, smiling, ‘I 
need n’t ask, for I’ve had such feelings here, 
that I did n’t know what to make of ’em; 
only it’s too much; I don’t know why He 


90 


AGNES. 


wants to save me. He had n’t ought to save 
me, so to speak, and I have told Him so, hut 
something kept putting these words into my 
mind,‘won’t cast ’em out, won’t cast ’em out,’ 
‘ save ’em to the outmost,’ — and I set up and 
sung that Methodist hymn, — 0, how I used 
to sing it through my nose to mock the folks 
at the Methodists’, and I learnt it by mock¬ 
ing ’em, — so I set up and sung it last night, 
as loud as I could, and the people here all 
round cried out to me not to make such a 
racket, but go to sleep.’ ” 

“‘And the prisoners heard them,’” said my 
wife. “What was the hymn ? Why did you 
not ask him to say it to you ? ” 

“We did,” said I. 

“He folded his arms, and raised his eyes, and 
sung: 

“ ‘ When I was sinking down, sinking clown, sinking down, 
When I was sinking down, sinking down ; 

Jesus resigned his crown, Jesus resigned his crown, Jesus 
resigned his crown, 

To save my soul.’ 



AGNES. 


01 


a In the third line, his hands were unfolded, 
and were lifted up with his eyes. 

“ ( Now,’ said he, ‘ that’s as true as preach¬ 
ing, and if Christ wants to save me, I shall let 
him, and all I can do will be to praise through 
all eternity. 0, I wish I had n’t laughed at 
good folks so. But there, I’m to be saved; but 
if lie had n’t died for me He could n’t have 
proved it to me, nor made me believe it. And 
if he hadn’t have been God, nothing could 
have made me feel that there was any grounds 
to stand on. What touches God, you see, is 
dreadful, — it’s beyond everything, and if 
God did it, it covers everything. Doctor/ 
said he, ‘ I ain’t afraid to die ; it’s short; I ’ll 
fix my eyes on Christ, and feel that I’m 
going straight to him. 0, poor Dick! he 
lived till morning, and they had a minister 
to him, and may be he’s saved; how he ’ll 
shake hands and forgive me ; but, if he isn’t, 
must I be lost because he is? or hasn’t 
Christ a right to pick out whom he’s a mind 
to, all as bad as the rest, and save him for 


92 


AGNES. 


nothing? What shall I do if he doesn’t? 
0, he will, he will! ‘ Of whom I’m chief: ’ 

no sir, beg your pardon, Michael Runy is that 
same; how they will look up to see me com¬ 
ing ! ‘ Why, there’s Michael Runy, that mur¬ 
dered Ross.’ Well, it’ll teach ’em something 
they never knew before. Doctor,’ said he, 
c don’t you never preach nothing but this: 
you tell people, as strong as you can, that 
God wants to save every mother’s son of 
’em. Step in among them men and boys that’s 
smoking afore the bank every Saturday eve¬ 
ning, and tell them about Michael Runy and 
Jesus Christ. There ain’t one of ’em, if ye ’ll 
speak kind and affectionate like, but what ’ll 
hear you and thank you; and nothing else 
but talking to them about Jesus Christ will 
touch ’em.’ 

“ He would have gone on all night with his 
wonderful flow of thought and words. I 
wished that I could have had all the divinity 
students in the land in that cell and corridor, 
to hear that dying man’s lecture on the atone- 



AGNES. 


93 


ment, and his exhortation on preaching 
Christ. 

“ But Dr. D. said to him : 4 Your mother told 
me, yesterday afternoon, Michael, that you 
wished to be baptized. Do you ? I should 
like to do it for you if you wish. ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir/ said Michael, ‘ I asked mother if 
she baptized me when I was a child, and she 
said, No, she wasn’t good enough herself. 
Says she, ‘Mike, if I had, and you’d been 
trained up in the ways of the Lord, you’d have 
never come to this.’ ‘ Well, no matter/ says 
I, ‘ mother, don’t take on so; only turn about 
yourself, and get religion, and look out for 
David and Madge, — they’re young; and if 
you’ll give up that cursed drinking, mother—’ 
‘ I will/ says she , 6 Mike, I have n’t tasted no 
sperits sence the constable took you from din¬ 
ner that day; and I won’t. I had a bottle 
under the table, but I flung it away.’ ” 

“ Did you know,” said my wife, “ that he 
was once engaged to be married to a very re¬ 
spectable girl, a cousin of our cook ?” 


94 


AGNES. 


a He told us so,” said I. “ Dr. D. asked him 
why he wished to be baptized ? ” 

“‘ Ruthy Dewire/ said he, e that married the 
blacksmith’s son down by the little bridge, 
used to company with me till she was con¬ 
verted, and when she saw she couldn’t change 
me, she left off going with me. I went to see 
her taken into the Methodists’. She was the 
only one. She took her bonnet off, and 
kneeled down, and the minister took a silver 
basin and sprinkled some water on her head. 
It was solemn, very solemn, ’specially when he 
said those words over her, ‘ Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost.’ I felt that them three were 
taking notice of Ruthy, she that used to go 
with me, and I couldn’t understand why such 
solemn names were said over her. I asked 
her about it. She said it meant that she was 
given up to them to take care of her, and she 
was to mind what they said to her in the 
Bible. Ruthy seemed so holy after that, I 
should have broke off from her if she had n’t; 
it made me so solemn to look at her after 



AGNES. 


95 


that. But you c&n tell me, Doctor, more 
about what it means/ 

a i In the first place/ said Dr. D., ‘you must 
not feel that it will save your soul/ ‘ 0,1 
don’t/ said Michael; ‘ that’s done ; the Lord 
did that/ ‘I am glad you feel so/ said Dr. 
D.; ‘ being baptized helps you feel that God 
and you make a covenant together; you give 
yourself up to him. He also gives you a seal 
of his being yours. You promise to renounce 
sin, as eating the bread and wine is a promise 
to love and obey Christ, and a help in doing 
it. Water cannot wash away sins, of course ; 
it signifies our purpose to put them away. I 
wish your parents, Michael, had been good 
people, and that they had baptized you when 
a child, promising sincerely to help you put 
off sin, and to bring you up for God. But 
now you can do it for yourself; though, if it 
had been done for you, with right feelings 
and right treatment of you, we see how dif¬ 
ferent things might have been with you. 

“ ‘ And, while you thus put off sin, God 


96 


AGNES. 


promises to be your God, and be writes bis 
name upon you, and takes you to be his. 
Do you understand all this, Michael V 

“ ‘ Every word of it, sir; my grandmother 
made me say the Bible and hymns to her 
every Sunday night, in the old country, and I 
guess she prayed for me; and God has skipped 
over my father and mother, and remembers 
her prayers; but, when we came over here, 
father and mother fell out, and father died, 
and mother got into a bad way. 0, do look 
after mother, won’t you ? Tell her how 
grandmother’s talk all comes back to me, 
and makes me see things quick, and under¬ 
stand them.’” 

"Have you not sometimes noticed this,” 
said my wife,—"a child of vicious parents 
turning out remarkably wxll, or, like this 
boy, becoming a Christian; and, on inquiry, 
found that some near ancestor of his had been 
distinguished for piety ? But do not let me 
interrupt you.” 

"‘Michael,’ said Dr. D., ‘do you truly re- 


AGNES. 


109 


carriage, and did not speak for a few minutes, 
till finally he said: 

“ All children go to heaven, I suppose.” 

" I think they do,” said I. " But they owe 
it to Christ if they do. Should they grow up 
here, they would grow up sinners, and there¬ 
fore they need to be bom of the Spirit, in 
order to enter heaven; and this they receive, 
we suppose, through Christ, who died for 
them. Was George baptized, Mrs. Burke?” 

" 0 no,” said she, covering her face with her 
handkerchief and weeping. "Mr. Burke could 
never be persuaded, and I did not wish to go 
alone. He used to say he felt ashamed to 
stand up before so many people; and, besides, 
he never saw any great use in it.” 

" I don’t feel so now,” said Mr. B. 

" How would you do now ? ” inquired I. 

" Why,” replied he," I would please my wife. 
I see now what a comfort it would be to her, 
though I do not see into it. I wish we could 
do it at the grave.” 

I was reminded of those words: "There is 


10 


110 


AGNES. 


no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wis¬ 
dom, in the grave whither thou goest.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. B., “ he would n’t have 
been taken away from us if I had offered him 
up, as wife called it.” 

“ Our little girl who died was baptized,” said 
my wife. “ That makes no difference.” 

“ But 0 ,” said Mrs. Burke, “ what a com¬ 
fort it must be to you now! I had some spells 
of crying over it.” 

“ 0 , don’t talk about that, wife,” said Mr. B.; 
“ you know I would n’t do the same now.” 

“ I did n’t mean to reproach you, my dear,” 
said she, “I was only thinking aloud. You are 
very kind to me, only we never thought just 
alike, you know.” 

I said: "I cannot but hope that you will5 
God may make this the greatest blessing to 
both of you.” 

We had been winding slowly up hill and 
down hill, stopping to let other carriages pass 
on their return; and at length we came to a 
remote part of the inclosure, a very humble 


AGNES. 


Ill 


place in it, where Mr. Burke, at the request of 
his wife, had, the day before, secured a very 
cheap lot, which she said she wished to feel 
was her own, and which she could 'visit and 
plant with flowers. 

“ So J esus slept,” said I, as we stopped. 

“ ‘ God’s dying Son 

Pass’d through the grave and bless’d the bed.’ 

“This is like the Saviour’s burying-place, 
‘ wherein was never man yet laid.’ ” 

We were the only persons present, except 
the two men in charge of the burial. The 
parents were strangers to almost every one, 
having recently come among us. 

The little coffin was laid upon the grass. 
The undertaker took a key from his pocket, 
opened the lid, and let it lean back. 

The mother kneeled, and laid her hand on 
the little breast, and bent over her child, with 
expressions of love and grief wdiich we could 
not but join to increase. The father was 
turning away, and was looking down into 
the grave, as though he had hurried to the 


112 


AGNES. 


very brink of the calamity, and was desper¬ 
ately in haste for the worst to come. I put 
my arm through his. “ This will be a pleas¬ 
ant place,” said I, “ on the morning of the 
resurrection, to little George.” 

Mr. B. “ There’s room enough for us all 
three. I wish I was to be laid here with him.” 

Mr. M. “ You are not ready yet, my dear 
sir; you must live, and be a good man, and 
do a great deal of good, and prepare to meet 
wife and child in heaven.” 

Mr. B. “They don’t take such people as 
me there.” 

Mr. M. “ But you will be a different man 
yet. ‘ The Lord gave, and the Lord hath ta¬ 
ken away;’ try to say, ‘and blessed be the 
name of the Lord.’ ” 

Mr. B. “ It’s no use to say it, if you don’t 
feel it.” 

Mr. M. “ 0, dear Mr. Burke, you will not 
quarrel with God at your little son’s grave. I 
doubt not George is in heaven; he is perfectly 
happy,— happier than he could be here. No 


AGNES. 


113 


more trouble and sorrow, no more sin; he is 
safe, and Jesus has saved him. You will not 
leave him here. It is no more to him than 
though you were burying that little Scotch- 
plaid frock and trousers, which my wife says 
he had on when she first saw him. God 
has done the very best thing which he could 
for you and George; you will not find fault 
with Him. Could you see all the effects of 
this affliction, you might feel very much 
ashamed to blame God. He can make this 
thing the means of the greatest happiness to 
you. 

“ Besides,” said I, “ think what a great God 
he is. Look over this cemetery, and think 
how terrible his doings are. ‘ Behold, he tak- 
eth away! who can hinder him ? Who can 
say unto God, What doest thou?’ But ‘lie 
maketh sore and bindeth up; he woundeth 
and his hands maketh whole.’ He has taken 
your little boy from you to heaven, and it 
almost distracts you. See how God can afflict 
us. 0, let us make him our friend. ‘Who 
10* 


114 


AGNES. 


hath hardened himself against Him and hath 
prospered ? ’ ” 

Mr. B .—“ If them men will wait for us, I 
wish you would make a prayer.” 

“ 0, be as long as you please, sir,” said the 
men, respectfully, while they withdrew and 
leaned over a rail-fence near by. 

I told him that, if he wished for it, I would 
offer prayer. “ You had better close the lid,” 
said I, “ while we pray; I am afraid the sight 
of the little face will prevent you from joining 
in prayer.” 

“ Please don’t shut it down tight,” said the 
mother. “ If we only had something to keep 
it a little ways open,” said she, looking about 
her. 

I took the tortoise shell card-case and laid 
it edgewise, so as to keep the lid open about 
three inches. I had it in my heart to bless 
God that he had given me that card-case with 
its contents, it seemed such a privilege to use 
it in this way. How little did I ever think 
that it would come to such a scene, in which 


AGNES. 


115 


its possessor would be acting the part of com¬ 
forter to the parents of a deceased only child, 
at that child’s grave, in the same cemetery 
from which I first carried away the little key. 

The grass was short and dry, the ground 
was safe to kneel upon, and we four kneeled 
around the coffin. 

THE PRAYER. 

“Will God look down upon us, as we come 
to render up this precious dust into his hands. 

“ ‘ I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, be¬ 
cause thou didst it.’ 

“‘When thou with rebukes dost correct 
man for his iniquity, thou makest his beauty 
to vanish away like a moth. Surely every 
man at his best state is altogether vanity.’ 

“ 4 The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ 

“We have sinned against thee, and death is 
by sin, and so death passed upon all men, for 
that all have sinned. 

“Thou art pleased to spare children, and 


116 


AGNES. 


make them a comfort to their parents; and 
again thou takest away, and none can stay 
thy hand, or say unto thee, What doest thou?’ 

"We know not which is best for us; we are 
short-sighted. Thou seest the end from the 
beginning, and hast in view everything relat¬ 
ing to each case, and thy decisions are wise 
and good. 

" It is not for us to call in question thy wis¬ 
dom in this event. We could have washed it 
otherwise; but the will of the Lord be done. 

" Thou hast taken this little child to thyself, 
saved it by Christ. While we journey on, 
amidst darkness and tempests, with sins and 
sorrows, he will behold thy face, grow up to 
be like Christ, and come again at the last day 
to this grave, and receive a body like unto 
Christ’s own glorious body. May we be com¬ 
forted by this, and strive to have a part with 
him in that resurrection. 

“ May these dear parents remember that 
there is to be a meeting with their child, and 
that the question then v T ill be, whether they 


AGNES. 


117 


are prepared for heaven. Let them not be 
separated from each other and from the child. 
Make its death the means of winning them 
both to God and heaven. 

"Be pleased to sustain them in this hour of 
trial. May he who knelt in Gethsemane, and 
prayed that the cup might pass from him, re¬ 
member them. May they remember him who 
then, for their sakes, said, ‘ Nevertheless, not 
as I will, but as thou wilt. , 

"May they remember how many hearts 
have bled like theirs; that God has not sent 
upon them a greater trial than he has often 
prepared for others, and that he is able to 
turn it into the richest of blessings, by making 
them love and serve God. 

"We now, in obedience to thy most holy 
will, commit this dust to the earth as it was. 
We cling to it, we would keep it, but thou 
hast said, ‘ Dust thou art, and unto dust thou 
shalt return.’ We bow before thy righteous 
mandate. In the name of Jesus, the Re- 


118 


AGNES. 


deemer, forgive the sins which subject us 
to thy just displeasure here and hereafter. 

" When they go back to their desolate 
home, comfort their hearts. May they not 
feel that they have left their child in the 
grave, but direct their thoughts to heaven; 
where their treasure is, there may their hearts 
be also. 

"And now help us to take the last look, and 
go through the parting, with our eyes fixed 
on Christ, whom at the last day we expect to 
see in the clouds over this cemetery, coming 
to judge the living and the dead. May this 
grave not be a place of mourning to us then, 
but of rejoicing; and meanwhile may our con¬ 
versation be in heaven, where the dear child 
is, and where Jesus is, and where we shall be 
if we are followers of Jesus. 

“ And may the God of peace, who brought 
again from the dead the Lord Jesus, that great 
Shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of 
the everlasting covenant, make us perfect in 
every good work, to do his will, working in 


AGNES. 


119 


us that which is well pleasing in his sight, 
through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory for 
ever. Amen.” 

We took up the body and buried it. We 
saw the little mound made into shape; the 
parents stood in silence over it, weeping, when 
a sudden clap of thunder, from a cloud con¬ 
cealed by the hill near us, gave a new direc¬ 
tion to their thoughts, and led us to hasten 
into the carriage from the storm. 

Before we left the cemetery, the rain came 
down, and the thunder and lightning were 
terrific. 

“ I enjoy this,” said I. 

“You do?” said Mrs. B.; “I am always 
afraid of being struck; but to-day I have no 
fear.” 

“ I wish we were safe at home,” said Mr. B. 

“ I love to see and hear God in his works,” 
said I: 

“This awful God is ours, 

Our Father and our Friend.’ ” 


120 


AGNES. 


“ How safe we are, Mr. B., with such a God 
on our side.” 

Mr. B. “0, Mr. M., I would give all the 
world to feel as you do about God.” 

Mr. M. “To lose a dear child, and then 
to feel rightly about it toward God, is among 
the surest means to make you love God. 
There is probably nothing that brings God 
and us nearer together than to lose a child, 
and now you will have the opportunity to 
show God what your feelings are toward him. 
Would you really love and serve God if you 
could?” 

Mr. B. “That I would; for I begin to 
feel that I must have God on my side if I 
would be well off.” 

Mr. M. “ There is one thing which I 
would give more to have you do than any¬ 
thing else.” 

Mr. B. “ I ’ll do anything for you, sir, 
you’ve been so kind to us.” 

Mr. M. “ But 0, you do not know what 


AGNES. 


121 


it is. You will, I fear, refuse, and say you 
cannot do it; but you can if you will.” 

Mr. B. " Then I ’ll die but what I ’ll do it!” 
bringing his fist down upon his knee. " I al¬ 
ways do what I set out for.” 

“ Tell us what it is,” said his wife. 

“ It is something,” said I, "which will please 
Mrs. B. more than anything you can do.” 

" Set up prayers,” said she. 

"Yes,” I replied ; " how came you to guess 
it?” 

"I’ve prayed for it ever since we kept 
house,” said she. "Husband, did you hear?” 

" Mr. B.,” said I, " after tea, take your Bible 
and read the twenty-third Psalm, and then 
kneel down with your wife, and pray to 
God.” 

He turned pale and red alternately,* a 
mighty struggle arose within him ; he pulled 
up the end of his frock-coat and gathered it 
into inch pieces, pressing them all together, 
then pulling the cloth out straight, entirely 
lost in thought, till at last he said : 


n 


122 


AGNES. 


* Well, wife, I’ll do it. I had my way about 
the baptism ; now you shall have yours. If 
God will help me, I ’ll say something; but I 
don’t know how to pray.” 

"We know not what to pray for as we 
ought,” said I; "‘but the Spirit itself maketh 
intercession for us with groanings which cannot 
be uttered.’ The more you have of them, Mr. 
B., the more acceptably you will pray. God 
will understand it; for he that searcheth the 
hearts knoweth what is the mind of the Spirit, 
because he maketh intercession for the saints 
according to the will of God.” 

Mr. B. " Come over and pray with us, Mr. 
M., this evening, and help me, and we ’ll see 
what we can do.” 

After tea, I went in and read the Bible, and 
endeavored to lead the afflicted father to the 
Saviour of sinners. I then proposed to lead 
in prayer, and he engaged to follow. I prayed 
much of the time, as in his name, making sim¬ 
ple confessions and petitions. He followed, 
in broken sentences and evidently with a bro- 


AGNES. 


123 


ken heart. I felt that the crisis was past; 
that he had submitted himself to God; that, 
as a lost and perishing sinner, he had accepted 
Jesus Christ as his atoning sacrifice; and his 
feelings with regard to the death of his child 
were those of submission, though grief was 
yet swelling within him in great billows; for 
the sea had not gone down, though the moon 
and stars appeared. He became a consistent 
Christian, joined the church, took a seat in 
the choir, he having a splendid baritone voice ; 
and sometimes, when I have listened, I could 
not be mistaken in the feeling that the sub¬ 
duing influence of affliction had raised him in 
the scale of being, and had opened suscepti¬ 
bilities in him which made him tenfold more 
of a man than he was before, besides enduing 
him, through grace, with that which made him 
a new creature, and had changed his pros¬ 
pects for eternity. 

Several months after that, he called, with 
his wife, at my house, very respectably 
dressed, being now the owner of a provis- 


124 


AGNES. 


ion stall in a large market, and in profit¬ 
able business. His countenance was changed. 
It was refined, urbane, full of feeling; lie was 
gentle and affectionate; he was a happy man. 

“ Do you know,” said he, “ what became of 
that key of ours the day we buried our little 
boy? Wife thinks that it was left in the lock.” 

“ I brought it away with me,” said I, “ and 
have kept it safely. I thought that it would 
only harrow your feelings for me to give it to 
you there, so long as you had not spoken 
about it, and did not think to take it with 
you.” 

I brought it to him in a little box, which I 
had caused to be turned from a piece of an 
oak limb which had fallen from a tree in my 
lot in the cemetery, during a high wind. I 
had written the name of the child, with the 
dates of its birth, death, and burial, and its 
place of burial, on the ribbon. They looked 
at it together, while different emotions chased 
one another over their faces. He gave it 


AGNES. 


125 


to his wife, who wrapped it in her handker¬ 
chief and placed it in her reticule, saying that 
she believed the best thing that God had ever 
done for her and her husband, was to make 
them the owners of that key. 

11* 


CHAPTER IX. 


There are some things which God does to 
us ? perhaps, with the simple object of making 
us feel that he is God. Then a controversy 
arises between us and him, the issue of which 
is fraught with permanent consequences for 
good or evil in our characters and condition. 
If some in affliction could express all that 
they think and feel, they would tell us that 
they do not like the character and the doings 
of the Almighty, as they understand them. 
They would say : We cannot help this. Men 
make impressions on our minds according to 
their character and conduct. These impres¬ 
sions are involuntary. We do not feel com¬ 
placency in the character of the Almighty, as 
we view it. 

Such was the sad, the fearful state of mind 

in an Infidel, as I was talking with him about 

( 126 ) 


AGNES. 


127 


the loss of his three children, who died within 
a year and a half of each other. His second 
child, a daughter of seventeen, was drowned 
in a pleasure party; his oldest child, a son of 
nineteen, fell a victim to the cholera in a 
Western city; and now his infant and his wife 
had just descended into one grave. The 
child, a week old, lay on its mother’s arm 
in the coffin. Several hundreds of people 
had been to view the sight; and many a 
spectator grew faint as he felt the mighty 
hand of God in that dwelling, and said, “What 
desolations He hath made in the earth ! ” 

It was toward sunset on Sabbath evening. 
I had been on an errand for a minister, re¬ 
specting the supply of his pulpit for the even¬ 
ing service, and was coming through one of 
the parks on my way home, when I met this 
bereaved husband and father strolling list¬ 
lessly along, looking dejected and pale; and, 
when he saw me, he lifted his eyes without 
raising his head. 

“Whichway are you walking?” I said to him. 



128 


AGNES. 


He had formerly visited in my father’s family, 
and we were on pleasant terms. 

“ 0,” said he, “ nowhere; I came out to get 
away from myself, and from my tomb of a 
house. Sundays are awful things to a man 
like me.” 

“Well, now,” said I, “ Mr. Winn, I was 
praying for you last evening, if you will ex¬ 
cuse me for speaking of it; for never in my 
life did I feel so toward a human being as I 
have felt toward you. Some lines of Crabbe 
have occurred to me in connection with your 
wife’s untimely death: 

“ ‘ Then died lamented, in the strength of life, 

A valued mother and a faithful wife; — 

Not when the ills of age, its pains, its care, 

The drooping spirit for its fate prepare, 

But all her ties the strong invader broke 

In all their strength, by one tremendous stroke.” * 

Taking out a little Bible which I always 
carry with me, I said : 

w In thinking of you, last evening, I turned 

* The Sudden Death and Funeral. — Crabbe’s T les. 


AGNES. 


129 


and read these words of Jeremiah in his Lam¬ 
entations, which, it seemed to me, yon could 
so appropriately use: 

u 6 I am the man that hath seen affliction by 
the rod of his wrath. 

“ ‘ He hath led me and brought me into 
darkness, but not into light. 

“ 6 Surely against me is he turned ; he turn- 
eth his hand against me all the day. 

“ 4 My flesh and my skin hath he made old ; 
ho hath broken my bones. 

“‘He hath budded against me, and com¬ 
passed me with gall and travail. 

“‘ He hath hedged me about, that I cannot 
get out; he hath made my chain heavy. 

“‘ He was unto me as a bear lying in wait; 
and as a lion in secret places. 

“ ‘ He hath turned aside my ways and pulled 
me in pieces; he hath made me desolate. 

“‘He hath bent his bow and set me as a 
mark for the arrow. 

“ ‘ He hath caused the arrows of his quiver 
to enter into my reins. 


130 


AGNES. 


“‘He hath filled me with bitterness; he 
hath made me drunken with wormwood. 

“ ‘ He hath also broken my teeth with 
gravel stones; he hath covered me with 
ashes. 

“ ‘ And thou hast removed my soul far off 
from peace ; I forgat prosperity/ 

“ You could hardly express your trouble in 
so many and such various terms, Mr. W. 
They all apply to you; and what a book 
the Bible is, containing everything suitable to 
each case! ” 

He made no remark, and I added : 

“Job, too, was brought to my mind by your 
bereavements. All his children were cut off” 

“ Yes, but his wife was left. She was not 
much, I am inclined to think; yet he had 
somebody to talk to, and to be with him. I 
wander all over my house, and there is not 
one place where I feel that I can sit down. 
It is haunted by some association, or it seems 
so lonely that I change the place but keep 
the pain. 0, Mr. M., if I had the manage- 


AGNES. 


131 


ment of affairs, I would not excruciate men in 
this way/’ 

“He doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve 
the children of men,” said I. 

“Willingly or not,” said he, “ it is done; and 
how can I think well of one who does this ? 
Now, I am a rational creature; I have sense 
and reason; I am not a machine or beast. I 
must judge of things as they are, and I cannot 
bow my affections to a being whom I cannot 
love. I suppose that I am worse than people 
in general in this thing, but I cannot help it, 
my feelings are involuntary.” 

“ I do not think that you are worse than 
people in general, by any means,” said I, “ in 
having those feelings. Thousands have them 
who do not express them as you do.” 

“ Now,” said he, “ that is the only decent 
thing which has been said to me for a fort¬ 
night past. My relations are all Presbyte¬ 
rians, church-going people, and they think me 
a regular blasphemer.” 

“ But,” said I, “ it is a poor compliment to 


132 


AGNES. 


say that you are no worse than thousands who, 
like you, have a carnal mind which is enmity 
against God; for it is not subject to his law, 
neither indeed can be.” 

“ That is rather plain language,” said he. 
“You certainly are not the man to be of¬ 
fended at the truth, Mr. W., after uttering 
yourself as plainly as you have to me re¬ 
specting the Most High ! ” 

“Did I say,” said he, “that I was an enemy 
to God ? I take it, that I may feel repug¬ 
nance to a character, and yet not be an enemy 
to the man who bears it.” 

I replied: “ If a man thoroughly dislikes his 
wife, with a settled aversion, is not his mind 
enmity to her? Yet you would not call him 
her enemy. But suppose a man to be utterly 
opposed to the measures of a king, and that he 
refuses to submit to him, and neglects every 
duty toward the government, talks to others 
against it, and his actions are in opposition to 
it; is he not justly called an enemy of the king? 


AGNES. 


133 


Surely he would be treated as such, under 
whatever name he might be arraigned.” 

“ He might not be a personal enemy to the 
king,” said he. 

“ As to all purposes of loyalty he is a rebel,” 
T replied. “ How remarkable it is that Christ 
sums up the v T hole moral law in this : ‘ Thou 
shalt love the Lord thy God, and thou shalt 
love thy neighbor.’ God makes religion, that 
is, our duty, to consist in, and flow from, love. 
Would it have satisfied you had that dear son 
of yours written to you, saying, ‘ Father, I am 
not your enemy, but I feel an utter repug¬ 
nance to you ? I do not, and I cannot, love 
you.’ What if you should have said to your 
wife, ‘ Let us separate; I am not your enemy, 
but I totally disapprove of your principles 
and conduct, and take no pleasure in you.’ 
All this you feel toward God.” 

“ Well, I know I do,” said he; “ and a man 
maybe perfectly justified in feeling so toward 
his wife, and a son toward his father.” 

“ Justified,” said I, “if the characters of the 
12 


134 


AGNES. 


father and the wife are really such as these 
alienated minds assert. Allow that, in the 
judgment of competent people without num¬ 
ber, they are, on the contrary, eminently 
lovely and good, what would that prove as 
to the son and the husband ? ” 

" It would prove that men differ honestly 
about the same things,” said he. 

I replied: " If a little child at table says, 
‘ Mother, my milk is sour,’ and the mother 
tastes it and finds it perfectly sweet; and, the 
child still insisting that it is sour, the mother 
hands it to two or three grown people, and 
they also say it is perfectly sweet, what 
then.? ” 

"Why,” said he, laughing, "either the child’s 
taste is out of order, or its temper.” 

" Mr. Winn,” said I, taking the tortoise shell 
card-case out of my pocket and drawing forth 
the little key, "there is the key of my little 
daughter’s coffin, as lovely a child as ever drew 
the breath of life, my only child. God took 
her away from me. Your children and your 


AGNES. 


135 


wife were your all. Agnes and my wife were 
my all; my child is dead, and my wife is has¬ 
tening after her. The bitter sorrow awaits me 
which you have drunk to the full. How does 
this make me feel toward God?” 

“I should like to hear,” said he, “interrupt¬ 
ing me.” 

“Mr. Winn,” said I, “it makes me say, 
6 Whom have I in heaven but thee ? and there 
is none upon earth that I desire besides thee. 
My flesh and my heart faileth, but God is the 
strength of my heart and my portion for ever. , ” 

“ I presume you do not mean, by all that, 
that you love him better than before ? ” 
“Better than before?” said I. “There is no 
comparison that does justice to the case; I 
love him, I worship him, I serve him, so far as 
my desires are concerned, as I never did. 
£ Though He slay me, yet will I trust in him.’ ” 
“ It is a mystery to me,” said he, “ and I 
suppose it is to you. It must be what you 
call sovereignty, or election,—something over 
which you have no control.” 


136 


AGNES. 


“Wliy,” said I, “you said just now, speak¬ 
ing of yourself, ‘ I am a rational creature; I 
have sense and reason; I am not a machine 
nor a beast.’ Will you allow me to be the 
same in these respects as yourself ? ” 

“ Then,” said he, “ how does it happen that 
you and I view the same things in such a 
totally different light ? ” 

“ Neither you nor I, nor any other man,” 
said I, “ is the standard of truth. There is a 
common standard, — the Word of God.” 

“ I wish I had more confidence in it,” said 
lie, interrupting me. 

“How improbable it is, Mr. W.,” said I, 
“ that a benevolent God would leave his crea¬ 
tures without some common standard of truth, 
which would be the arbiter among their con¬ 
trary judgments and moral sentiments. This 
argument in favor of a divine revelation con¬ 
vinces me that the Bible is the Word of God. 
He who gave us the magnetic needle, he who 
has made the human hand, and the eye, with 
such wise and benevolent adaptedness to our 


AGNES. 


137 


wants, would not, he could not, fail to supply us 
with such a means of instruction and comfort 
as a revelation from himself. He knew that 
the greatest desire of his creatures would be, 
to have authentic information of the character 
and the wishes of the Being who holds them 
at his will, and of the way to please him, — 
to say nothing of other things, which would 
make a revelation indispensable. There must 
be such a revelation, Mr. W. Did not the 
astronomers, witnessing the perturbations of 
Uranus, say, c There must be a planet beyond 
him, to account for these disturbances ’ ? Did 
they not calculate where the undiscovered 
world must be, and settle its distances, and 
weight, and orbit, by rules which required all 
which they afterward discovered ? I say that 
such a system as that under which men live, 
requires that there be a divine revelation, if 
there be a benevolent God.” 

“ 0,” said he, “ you go too fast and too far. 
I have not settled the point that there is such 
a benevolent Being.” 


138 


AGNES. 


a My dear friend/’ said I, “ you cannot 
mean that your sufferings counterbalance all 
those proofs which Dr. Paley, for example, in 
his Natural Theology, quotes from every side 
to show the goodness of God ? If you are an 
exception to the general law of goodness, let 
it be so, and account for it in a rational way ; 
do not impugn the wisdom and goodness of 
God in the whole structural economy of ani¬ 
mate and inanimate things.” 

“How shall I account for it, then, that I am 
an exception ? ” said he. 

“I deny that you are,” said I. “You could 
not count up the number of those who have 
suffered as much as you. That peculiar trials 
should have fallen to the lot of any is to be 
explained hereafter, and not perhaps in this 
life; and an old writer says, ‘ Quarrel not with 
God’s unfinished providences.’ You have no 
doubt that your wife and little child have 
gone to heaven.” 

He made no reply. 

“ Your other daughter, too, I learn, was a 


AGNES. 


139 


Christian. Suppose your son, also, to have 
been prepared to die ; and suppose, now, that 
you could look in upon your whole family in 
heaven, would you feel that some great calam¬ 
ity had happened to them ? Might not some 
there say, What family is this ? Whom lias 
God loved and honored so, that he has trans¬ 
ferred them together here ? There they are, 
a constellation of four stars in the firmament 
of heaven, known by some name, perhaps, 
and as beautiful to spectators as the Southern 
Cross, or Pleiades, with a vacant place in their 
arrangement waiting for you.” 

“ That makes my present loss and pain no 
less,” said he. 

“ But,” said I, “ seventy years are a small 
part of our whole existence. God may have 
judged that the very best way to secure your 
usefulness here, and your eternal happiness, 
was to take all your family to heaven. There 
you may see that the greatest kindness God 
ever bestowed upon you was to bereave you, 
and thus to keep you from having your por- 


140 


AGNES. 


tion in this life. He broke up your nest, and 
took you on his wings, and bore you abroad. 
He is now seeking to win your confidence and 
affection, that be may save you. Are you 
aware, my dear sir, that God loves you ? ” 

“ He cannot be wbat you say be is, if he 
can love me,” said Mr. W. 

“ Because He is wbat he is, He loves you 
with infinite compassion; but not of course 
with complacency. His feelings towards you 
are those of infinite benevolence. You will 
be as welcome to his favor and to eternal 
happiness as any man. I am persuaded that 
the peculiarity of your afflictions is a proof of 
peculiar regard for you; God is making pecu¬ 
liar efforts to save you. Do not frustrate them. 
These clouds may be full of mercy. How 
much your family in heaven must love you! 
How must that dear wife long to show you 
the little babe, which, under her tuition in 
heaven, has become perfect in beauty! 0, can 
you bear to think of being separated from 
them forever, Mr. W. ? ” 


AGNES. 


141 


“ I don’t see but I must,” said he, “if all you 
say is true.” 

“No one but yourself will be to blame if 
you are not saved,” I replied. “God has used 
the severest method to detach you from earth. 
He now admonishes you, by what you have 
suffered, that future and endless separation 
will be intolerable. Speaking to the Israel¬ 
ites, he tells them of their sufferings when 
they shall be separated from their children by 
enemies in war. “ Thy sons and thy daugh¬ 
ters shall be given unto another people, and 
thine eyes shall look and fail with longing for 
them all the day long.” How insupportable 
home-sickness is to a husband and father in a 
foreign land, thinking that the ocean lies 
between him and his home. What weari¬ 
ness and restlessness you feel now, as you miss 
your wife and children. The world is a sepul¬ 
chre to you. What would you do hereafter, 
to find that they are together in heaven, and 
you banished from them ? ” 

“Well, I wish that I had not been born,” 



142 


AGNES. 


said he; “ and, if there were such a thing as 
annihilation, I would soon find it.” 

“Better be a happy spirit in heaven through 
eternity, as you may be,” said I. “ The time 
will come when you will look on all these 
troubles with a peaceful mind. I love to say 
those words to myself: ‘Thou which hast 
showed me great and sore troubles, shalt 
quicken me again, and bring me up again 
from the depths of the earth. Thou shalt 
increase my greatness, and comfort me on 
every side/ I shall not wonder if I see you 
settled again, in a happy home, your feelings 
mellowed and chastened by affliction, and 
you in possession of rich joys, and exerting 
great influence by reason of your experience. 
God ‘maketh sore and bindeth up; he wound- 
eth ’ and his hands make whole. He shall 
deliver thee in six troubles; yea, in seven 
there shall no evil touch thee/ ” 

He began to wipe his eyes and to smile, 
as he said: “ Hope is a blessed medicine, after 
all; Pandora shut down the lid of her box in 


AGNES. 


143 


good time when she kept Hope behind, after 
she had let out all our plagues” 

“ That is a good fable,” said I; “ but there 
is a better Scripture for you: ‘ Now the God 
of hope fill you with all joy and peace in 
believing, that ye may abound in hope through 
the power of the Holy Ghost/ What a name 
that is, Mr. W., — ‘ the God of hope/ ” 

“ I am glad I met you,” said he. “ I begin 
to think that I have been very foolish. 
There’s no use in being so stubborn. I 
have stood in my own light. If I had done 
better, I might have escaped these troubles.” 

" I am glad to hear you bemoaning your¬ 
self,” said I. " Now turn to God, my dear sir, 
humble yourself to him; for he is God and 
you but dust. ‘ Humble yourselves, therefore, 
under the mighty hand of God, that He may 
exalt you in due time/ ” 

" Whether he exalts me or not,” said he, in 
a somewhat excited way, which startled me, 
"you have made me feel that I have a duty 
to perform. Walk in,” said he, as we came 



144 


AGNES. 


to his door. He rang the bell. A middle- 
aged woman opened the door a little ways, 
and peeped out, knowing that she was alone 
in the house, and feeling suspicious of every 
one who came to it. 

“ I want you to go with me,” said he, “ to 
the spot where my wife died.” 

The chamber was a little darkened, the 
blinds being partly shut. The full bed, with its 
snowy white drapery, had an affluent look. 
The door of a cedar-wood closet stood open, 
and there hung a lady’s dresses, making me 
start at the thought of my intrusion into such 
a sanctuary; while I remembered, too, what 
mournful relics they were to this bereaved 
man. A little feature in a sad scene fre¬ 
quently occupies the chief place in our 
thoughts, and here my eye w r as caught by 
the sleeve of a dress which hung out, with the 
bend in it made by the wearer’s arm! How 
sick at heart did I feel; and what I should 
say to my friend in my frame of mind, I 




AGNES. 


145 


did not know, when I was surprised by the 
sound of his voice in prayer. 

I looked round, and he was at the farther 
side of the bed, kneeling, and lifting up his 
folded hands upon the white coverlid. I shall 
never forget his words. I stole round and 
knelt at some distance from him, while he said : 

“ 0 God, it is all right. I am a sinner. I 
am glad that there is One who is mightier 
than I am, and has conquered me, a rebel, 
and brought me to his feet. 0, how much it 
took to bring me down. It is all right; I 
yield; do with me what seems good. For 
the blessed Jesus’ sake, have mercy on a poor, 
desolate, lost, miserable sinner. Please do not 
let me suffer so forever. Save me from 
myself. 0, my wife! my wife! my chil¬ 
dren ! I never prayed with them. I might 
have ruined them if they had lived. God! 
thou hast snatched them away from their 
wicked father; and now, 0, if God means 
to save the father too — what a God he must 
be, and — ” 


13 



146 


A GNES. 


Here lie fell into incontrollable sobbing, and 
buried his face in the side of the downy bed. 

After a while I ventured to follow him in 
prayer, commending him to the infinite Friend 
and Saviour of sinners, leading him in my 
supplications to the Lamb of God which tak- 
eth away the sin of the world. 

I shall always believe that, in that moment, 
he was reconciled to God through the death 
of his Son. On that spot, where his wife 
ascended to glory, he found eternal life, so 
that I said with myself, “‘How dreadful is this 
place! this is none other than the house of 
God, and this is the gate of heaven.’ ” 

“Mr. M.,” said he, “I shall sleep here to¬ 
night. I have always been afraid to come 
into the room. Now I should love to spend 
my days and nights here. 0, what a God he 
is! Do you think he can forgive and forget 
all my wicked words against him ? When he 
has been trying to do the very best thing for 
me, what a shame that I should be treating 
him so. How is it that he spares men who 


AGNES. 


117 

act as I did ? 0, if I don’t spend my life in 

making people love him! How came He to 
send you to me in the Park ? You must have 
had a revelation. It could not have been an 
accident. Let me see that card-case again. 
That little key fitted the lock on my heart, 
and you got into it. How old was she ? Do 
tell me all about her.” 

We were summoned down to his tea-table, 
though I had already taken tea before leav¬ 
ing home. The table was beautifully and 
richly spread. 

“ These initials on this china have an inter¬ 
esting tale, I suppose, to you,” said I. 

“Mr. M.,” said he, “I am in a new world. 
Everything is changed. When I took up 
these sugar-tongs and saw these embossed 
initials of my wife’s name, a pang went 
through me; but it was followed, for the 
first time, by a feeling of peace, and even of 
joy. I have something to live for now. God 
is better than family, heaven is more than 
earth; to do good is all that life is worth. 


118 


AGNES. 


Do help me, and set me at work. Have you 
not some poor people that I can visit? If 
any of them are in trouble, let me know it. 
Excuse me; you asked about the china, — I 
hardly think of anything that belongs to this 
world. Yes, it came from Hamburg, a wed¬ 
ding present from her mother; but how it 
has lost its value to me in a day. How little 
she cares for it. What are all these treasures 
worth ? I have property, you know; but it 
could not give health nor save life. My house 
is full of valuable things, and now I should be 
willing to give them all away and be a mis¬ 
sionary, if I were fit. Do tell me everything 
about that little key. I suspect, by your 
carrying it with you, it has had some great 
effect upon your feelings. Now I think of 
it, I know that undertaker has one that 
belongs to me. Yes, it was locked, I am 
sure,” said he, with a thoughtful inclination 
of his face; “ the coffin was locked before I 
came out of the tomb, I remember. I heard 
the little click. I must go to-night, — no, it's 


AGNES. 


149 


the Sabbath, — I will go to-morrow and get 
that key.” 

a Do so,” said I. " You will find it to be 
the richest and most useful treasure, next to 
the Bible, which ever came into your hands ” 
And after much conversation, I bade him 
good-night. 

"God bless you, my dear sir,” said he. 
"Do not regret leaving me alone, now; the 
house seems full of God. You have done 
good to one miserable sinner; keep on, and 
God help you to bless many like me.” 

What a walk was that to my house! I took 
the little key and bathed it with kisses and 
tears. Dear little Agnes! you have done 
great good already by your death. "0 Lord, 
our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all 
the earth, who hast set thy glory above the 
heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and 
sucklings hast thou ordained strength because 
of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the 
enemy and the avenger ” 

(13*) 


CHAPTER X. 


Visiting some friends, I found a man who 
had often conversed with me about a great 
affliction which had happened to him eighteen 
months before. 

He had long been dejected, had separated 
himself from the world, and spent much time 
in reading the Bible and in prayer. 

He told me that all this seclusion and seem¬ 
ing devotion had no good effect upon him; 
but the contrary. He, too, had lost a child, 
and then his wife. It had made him almost 
insane. The loneliness of his situation was 
his greatest affliction, on account of the brood¬ 
ing melancholy which it occasioned. Unhap¬ 
pily, he was obliged to follow a sedentary life, 
being a very able accountant, and spending 
his time at home over books and sheets of 
figures, which were deposited with him by as- 

( 150 ) 


AGNES. 


151 


signees. He was a man of education, of 
great refinement of taste and feeling, and in 
easy circumstances. 

The day that I called to see him, I was sur¬ 
prised to find him unusually cheerful and 
happy. I expressed my wonder, and asked 
him if anything good had happened to him. 

“ Sit down here on this sofa,” said he, a and 
I will tell you all about it. You know that I 
have been in the depths of misery ever since 
I met with my bereavement. How much I 
have prayed over it I cannot tell you. Never 
was it out of my thoughts for many moments 
at a time. It would come over me suddenly 
while adding up a column of figures, and put 
everything out of my mind. I could not for¬ 
get her, nor my dreadful agony when she 
died, and at the funeral and the grave. 0, 
how I have prayed to God, day and night, that 
he would relieve me ! Sometimes, however, 
I have kneeled down to pray about it, and all 
my feeling seemed to depart. I was as dead 


152 


AGNES. 


and cold as a stone. I began to understand 
what Coleridge describes: 

" 1 A grief without a pang, void, drear, and dark, 

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 

Which finds no natural outlet and relief, 

In word, or sigh, or tear.’ * 


“ I said a few incoherent words, and went 
away, feeling that I had no religion, reproach¬ 
ing myself that I could treat my Maker in 
such a manner. Then I would relent and 
again ask God to comfort me; but praying 
only seemed to make my sensibilities more 
keen, and to press my bitter loss upon them. 

“ One evening, as I was kneeling and pray¬ 
ing about it, and finding that I was going 
through the same process which for so long a 
time had resulted in disappointment, it sud¬ 
denly struck me that I must help myself. I 
had a feeling of resolution come over me, 
which I think was in answer to prayer. I 
resolved that I would no longer be such an 


Dejection. — Coleridge's Poems. 


AGNES. 


153 


impotent creature. I plainly saw that God 
could not help me except as he made me help 
myself, and I resolved to use means of relief in 
dependence on God. 

"The first thing I did, was to accept an 
invitation to a select party, made in honor of 
some friends of mine. I had shut myself out 
from all such scenes for more than a year; and 
now, though I had no more relish for them 
than before, I resolved that I would mix with 
society, not to be entertained, but to make 
others happy. I went to the party with that 
resolution. It was, some would think, an 
incongruous thing to go to a party under the 
influence of a text; but why should it be so ? 
I thought of this : ‘ The Son of man came not 
to be ministered unto, but to minister.’ That 
evening I spoke with almost every soul in the 
room. Those whom I did not know, I asked 
to be made acquainted with, and exchanged 
pleasant words with them, found that some of 
them were old acquaintances of my parents, 
and some went to school with my sisters, and 


154 


AGUES. 


some told me what frolics they and I had 
when we were children together, and others 
related their great sorrows; till at last I found 
that I was really a happy man, — younger by 
ten years than a day before. I saw some of 
them look at me, and overheard one say to 
another, 6 What do you suppose has happened? 
Engaged again ? ’ I went home resolved that 
I would no longer live to myself. When I 
went to my room that night, the first thing I 
did was to repent of my thousands of prayers. 
How selfish, how wrong they seemed. 0, 
how God must have regarded me, a droning, 
morbid creature, refusing to do and to enjoy 
anything because I had been afflicted, and 
asking God to do an impossibility. I never 
before truly submitted myself and my trouble 
to God; my prayers were complaints, mur- 
murings, if not impeachments; but I began 
to see and feel the power of that word, ‘ Be 
still and know that I am God.’ I do believe 
that the best help which we can have in afflic¬ 
tion is that which, by God’s grace, we are 


AGNES. 


155 


enabled to give ourselves, using our common 
sense, availing ourselves of expedients to 
assist and cheer the mind, resorting to va¬ 
rious methods of changing the current of 
thought, making waste-locks and wiers to 
diminish the strength of the tide, and toll in 
supplies of new thoughts and feelings for our 
help” 

“ Had you no alternations of feeling ? ” said 
I. a Did not your sorrows come back without 
leave ? ” 

“ Of course they did,” said he ; 66 but I took 
care to barricade myself against them. Short 
journeys I found useful; entertaining, cheer¬ 
ful books, especially those of a scientific, 
descriptive kind, which led to no intro¬ 
verted contemplation, but kept my thoughts 
out at pasture; humorous writings, the news 
of the day, anything which would take my 
attention and hold it by an intrinsic interest, 
so that I did not feel that I was practising arts 
with myself, did much to help me.” 

“ But did you not thereby lose something 


156 


AGNUS. 


of your spiritual-mindedness, your interest in 
prayer ? 

“Far from it. My prayers became more 
like the Epistle of James; works and faith 
met in them ; I had a good conscience ; I was 
living to make others happy; I had become 
reconciled to God. Besides, I had more true 
religious enjoyment than before, from Scrip¬ 
tural truths” 

“ That is what I should be glad to hear you 
speak of more at large,” said I; “for what¬ 
ever illustrates the Word of God is exceed¬ 
ingly precious ” 

“Well,” said he, “one day I read this pas¬ 
sage, ‘ The night is far spent, the day is at 
hand.’ It came to my mind, How soon I shall 
be in heaven. Perhaps even now I am on the 
very verge ; perhaps in a few days I shall be 
with God. How sorry I shall be if I spent 
my time in useless weeping, when relief was 
all the while so near. 

“ I thought also of these words: 6 If thou 
faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is 


AGNES. 


157 


small/ It is sublime to bear the fearful 
strokes of God’s providence with meekness 
and firmness; to endure; to show one’s self 
a man. How true this is : 

“ ‘ God did anoint thee with his odorous oil, 

To wrestle, not to reign/ * 

a I have felt that terrible calamities are 
great blessings to the spirit of a man who 
knows how to suffer. To such a man, a great 
affliction from God is like a great blast in a 
quarry,— it throws out great treasures, or it 
opens a way for great projects, I revere a 
man who is in great affliction, God seems to 
have selected him, like a piece of second- 
growth timber, for an important work. It is 
not every one who can be trusted to suffer 
greatly. I look with great respect upon an 
honest man who has fallen into disfavor and 
is greatly abused. Many a time, when we 
were boys, you know, we were attracted to an 
apple tree in a pasture, by the great number 

* Miss Barrett. — “ What are wc set on earth for 'i ” 


14 


153 


AGNES. 


of clubs and stones which lay under it, show¬ 
ing that the fruit had attracted notice. To 
angels in heaven, a good man enduring suffer¬ 
ings well, must be a sublime sight; for suf¬ 
ferings and faith are no part of their expe¬ 
rience ; but to see a mortal bearing the afflic¬ 
tive hand of God with faith and love, must 
excite their admiration. How angels flocked 
around Christ; how they must have loved 
him, when at the end of his temptation 
‘the devil leaveth him, and behold, angels 
came and ministered unto him ! 9 There 
is the truest courage, I think, in adjusting 
ourselves to our circumstances. If God be¬ 
reaves us, let us live bereaved; if he takes a 
blessing from us, let us do without it; not 
with stoicism, but with childlike submission, 
— ‘Father, you know best.’ 

“Besides,” said he, “God is all the time 
teaching us that this is not an unmixed con¬ 
dition, neither of evil nor good. Compensa¬ 
tions are the rule of his gracious providence ; 
we all have them. I have learned to have 


AGNES. 


159 


less pity for greatly afflicted people than 
formerly; for I know that they have great 
consolations, and their losses are in one way 
and another atoned for, in some degree, if 
they feel and act right. ‘ In the day of pros¬ 
perity be joyful; but in the day of adversity 
consider: God also hath set the one over 
against the other, to the end that man should 
find nothing after him/ making man feel that 
God adjusts and disposes everything. These 
lines of Gray have been a comfort to me : 

" ‘ Still, where rosy pleasure leads, 

See a kindred grief appear; 

Behind the steps that misery treads, 

Approaching comfort hear. 

The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
Chastised by sadder tints of woe, 

And blended, form, with artful strife, 

The strength and harmony of life.’ ” * 

“Now,” said I, “let me thank you for all 
that you have said, and tell you something of 
my experience under sorrow, and that may 


* “ Vicissitude/’— Gray’s Poems. 


1G0 


AGNES. 


start other trains of thought in you which I 
shall be glad to hear.” 

a I have heard several speak of that little 
key of yours/’ said he, “ and what legerde¬ 
main you seemed to work with it in the feel¬ 
ings of people. I hope that you will try it on 
me.” 

“ You are past needing it/’ said I; “yet we 
can always help one another from our expe¬ 
rience. One effect of affliction on me has 
been to make me forgiving. People some¬ 
times inflict great injuries upon me; for you 
know my calling leads me into scenes where 
I have to resist the evil passions of men. Few 
men get more ill-will than one who tries to 
discharge the duties of his place with im¬ 
partiality. The treatment which I used to 
meet with, frequently embittered my feelings 
against men. Since I lost my child, strange 
to say, I find it harder to cherish animosities. 
Some roots, you know, cannot take hold of 
rich soil; they need sandy, coarse ground; so, 
when our hearts are fertilized by affliction, it 


AGNES 


161 


is hard for certain poor things to get a place 
there. When a man injures me, I have a 
feeling of tenderness toward him come over 
me at times, if I say with myself^ I wonder if 
he has a little child, or ever lost one; and that 
thought — you will smile—has sometimes 
kept me from replying in the newspapers to 
angry assaults upon me. I know how weak 
many would deem me for this; but so it is. 
Many a time, when my feelings have been 
exasperated, I have taken the little key into 
my hands, and the thought of the little grave 
has calmed my passions. I have stolen Mark 
Anthony’s words: 

“ My heart is in the coffin there with ” Agnes, 

“ And I must wait till it comes back to me.” 

“As, when it thunders and lightens, I often 
think how secure the little sleeper is ; and, 
when the heavy rain comes down on that 
peaceful bed, my heart betakes itself to calm 
thoughts, because the precious dust feels no 
tempests, wakes at no alarm, —so in trouble 
that little grave makes me feel peaceful. 

14 * 


162 


AGNES. 


How often have I said to myself, when a 
man lias written against me or spoken ill of 
me, Could I meet him at the grave of his 
little child or mine, we should almost love one 
another; we should write and speak about 
each other, publicly, in unexceptionable terms. 
I almost wish that some of our great conven¬ 
tions could be held inside the fences of some 
cemetery. ” 

“ There v T iil be a great convention in every 
one of them, one of these days,” said he. 
“The last great meetings of men on earth 
will most of them be held there.” 

“Each of us will come to attend them,’ 1 
said I. 

“ Resolutions will be of no effect then,” he 
added, taking up a newspaper filled with mat¬ 
ters relating to the presidential election. “ 0, 
did you notice the loss of that passenger ship 
with four hundred souls on board ? ” 

“I did, and it made me think, What a 
cemetery is the sea. None are thought 
of, loved, and mourned over, more than 


AGNES. 


1G3 


they who find their sepulture there. It 
is soothing to have the dust of a child or 
friend in a sure, safe grave, when you meet 
with those whose loved ones are lost in the 
great w T aters. But He who is the resurrection 
and the life has his eye upon them. The Lord 
buried them, and no man knoweth of their 
sepulchres. And yet they are more conspicu¬ 
ously buried than those on land. Few know 
where one and another on land lies buried, 
but the unknown sepulchre of the deep is 
well known; those viewless graves are ever 
before our eyes. I have noticed that they who 
are lost, or die, at sea, exert great religious 
influence on survivors at home. Christ is 
magnified in their bodies by their death.” 

“I love to think,” said he, “that our sepa¬ 
rations, griefs, and our improvement under 
them, will make us love each other intensely 
when w~e meet again.” 

I said to him, “ If afflictions make us sullen, 
slothful, jealous of God, morose, and useless, 
we shall feel very much ashamed hereafter. 


164 


A G X E S. 


Our afflictions pierce the heart of God before 
they reach ours. Pie is willing to see us 
suffer greatly for the endless good effect which 
he means to accomplish by it. Should he 
spare the rod for our crying, or should he 
consult our wishes, it would be our calamity.” 

“ Do you not suppose,” he asked, “ that the 
remembrance and the pain of some trials fol¬ 
low us to the end of life ? When I was sick 
some years ago, they gave me a medicine 
which they called Hiera Picra, which, trans¬ 
lated, you know, means Sacred Bitter. God 
seems to dispense such medicines sometimes. 
I could not remove the taste of that bitter 
by any expedient.” 

“ Do you remember,” I inquired, “ a passage 
in Prior’s Life of Edmund Burke, which speaks 
of his feelings at the loss of his son, the c low 
moan ’ which continued in his heart long after 
he had submitted to God, and how he would 
hang on the neck of his son’s horse and weep ? 
Yes, there are sorrows which we carry with 


AGNES. 


1G5 


us to our graves. They ought, however, to 
make us more useful, more diligent, more 
grateful for redemption • for what must it be 
to ‘lie down in sorrow,’ in another world? 
To a man in hell, what must the recollection 
of his children be? . What a word that is: 
‘ Ye shall lie down in sorrow.’ Did you ever 
notice that fearful imprecation: ‘ Give them 
sorrow of heart, thy curse unto them ’ ” ? 

“ My heart exults sometimes,” said he, “ in 
thinking of that word: ‘ And God shall wipe 
away all tears from their eyes ; and there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor 
crying, neither shall there be any more pain; 
for the former things are passed away.’ We 
can bear anything for this short period; the 
thought that afterward there is never to be 
one sensation of pain or grief, but increasing 
bliss forever, ought to make us cheerful here.” 

“ It ought to make us diligent,” I replied; 
“ for when I think how long that bliss will be, 
how many are in danger of losing it, how 


1G6 


AGNES. 


short a time we have to secure it, and help 
others to obtain it, I do not feel impatient 
for heaven; I wish to live and do good to my 
fellow men.” 

As we parted, I told my friend how glad I 
felt that he had learned the self-control which 
religion teaches. Our feelings are not given 
to us for our guide ; we must subject them to 
the laws of God. Though it was easier to 
commend him than fully to imitate him, I 
carried away with me a new purpose, that, by 
the help of God, I would endeavor, more than 
ever, to help myself. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“ Which is the greater trial,” said my wife, 
as w T e rode home from a visit to some friends 
in affliction, — “to lose a child, or to leave it?” 

I replied: “To lose it,so far as my observa¬ 
tion has gone. Nothing has surprised me more 
than the resignation and peace of some Chris¬ 
tian mothers, when called to die and to leave a 
family of young children. There was a pang 
when the conviction that they must die came 
over them; but it was short, and I have 
"wondered at the self-possession with which 
they looked upon the children afterwards.” 

Mrs. M. “How do you account for it?” 

Mr. M. “ Partly from natural causes. 
Some instincts wdiich are given us for self- 
preservation are mercifully suspended when 
they can be of no use. People falling from a 
height, or thrown from a vehicle, are not fully 

ac7) 


1G8 


AGNES. 


sensible of what is happening to them. Be¬ 
sides, God is pleased to stay his rough wind in 
the day of his east wind. Dying grace is for 
a dying hour; we cannot feel in health as we 
shall in the last hours of life.” 

Mrs. M. “The expectation of what is to 
happen to ourselves, I suppose, abates our soli¬ 
citude for others” 

Mr. M. “ When I had made up my mind 
to go to Europe, after we were married, the 
anticipation of all which I was to see and ex¬ 
perience, held my regret at leaving you, so to 
speak, in suspension; the mind cannot long be 
acted upon powerfully by two opposite pas¬ 
sions • one yields ; and so I suppose it is with 
the solicitude of parents for their children, 
when their own departure takes full posses¬ 
sion of their thoughts. But there is something 
better than all this, I think, as a means of pre¬ 
paring us to leave children.” 

Mrs. M. “ What is that ? — for I am going 
this afternoon to see Mrs. Wales, who is dying 




AGNES. 


169 


of consumption. She lias six children, from 
sixteen, down to one year old.” 

"I will go with you,” said I; "for I should 
expect to be greatly instructed by seeing and 
hearing her.” 

The morning glories were climbing over the 
windows of Mrs. Wales’ humble room, turning 
their simple, beautiful trumpetrflowers, of dif¬ 
ferent colors, in all directions, and some of 
them towards the open windows, where I took 
my seat. 

" God is here, my dear Mrs. Wales,” said I, 
as I drew one of the creepers toward me, full of 
flowers, and looked at her. "If God so clothe 
the grass, how much more will he clothe us.” 

She was supported in bed with pillows, look¬ 
ing nearly as white as they. The peace of 
God which passeth all understanding was ex¬ 
pressed in her face. 

" Mr. M.,” said she, " I have given all up to 
God, and feel that I no longer have any re¬ 
sponsibility for anything.” 

My wife asked her if she was able to look 

15 


170 


AGNES. 


upon her babe and the other children with 
composure of mind. 

"Yes” she replied; "but I am a wonder to 
myself. Their father has gone to heaven, and 
I expect to be there soon, and these children 
will be orphans. But I have this feeling: 
God knows what he is doing. Now, if he sees 
fit to take us away from our six children, let 
him do it; for he sees a reason for it which 
would satisfy me, could I be made acquainted 
with it. Or, if he never tells me why he does 
it, still, blessed be his name; for w r ho are we, 
that God should explain his conduct to us ? 
0, how good it is to trust God and love him, 
when you cannot understand his w r ays! ” 

Mrs. M. " But you must have some natural 
pangs, as you think of parting with these dear 
ones.” 

Mrs. W. " 0, Mrs. M., there is no reasoning 
about it. All I know is that I am at peace.” 

Mr. M. " Tell me, Mrs. Wales, w T hat one 
thought comes to your mind with special 
power as you think of leaving these children? 


AGNES. 


171 


Is there one thing more than another which 
gives you special comfort ? ” 

Mrs. W. “I think it is this: I feel sure of 
meeting them all in heaven, and it seems to 
me a very little while ere I shall. The last 
time I went to church, our minister was speak¬ 
ing about the expectation which the Apostles 
sometimes seem to have had, that the day of 
the Lord was near, and he said perhaps it 
might be accounted for by their all-absorbing 
interest in that event, which made intervening 
time and objects shrink to nothing. Heaven 
and eternity so engross my mind, that I 
strangely forget earthly things, however im¬ 
portant; and I chide myself sometimes for 
not planning and directing about my children. 
But, besides being weak, I stop myself when I 
do this at all, by saying, How little you know 
about the future! It is like walking in the 
fog. You can see a few steps only at a 
time; take them, and you can see as many 
more. My sister and her husband have 
promised to befriend my children, but 0,” 


172 


AGNES, 


said she, covering her face, c God is their God 
and my God, — that is enough. ” 

Mr. M. "But you feel so sure of meetr 
ing them all in heaven,— how is this? What 
gives you such confidence ?” 

Mrs. W. “ Jane, my child, hand Mr. M., that 
missionary paper which has the piece about 
leaving children.” 

It was a periodical of a foreign missionary 
society. I read aloud. It seems that a dying 
father, a missionary, was about to leave four 
young children; his wife, their mother, having 
previously died. The writer says: 

“ There was another subject which claimed his most earnest 
thought. He was about to leave his four motherless children, 
in a strange land, to the exclusive care of a doubly bereaved 
sister. Knowing him to be an affectionate father, always 
anxious and careful in regard to his offspring, I hardly dared to 
mention the case. I soon found, however, that his mind was 
entirely at rest in relation to them. Their sainted mother had 
dedicated them to God; he had renewed that dedication. A 
covenant had been made -with the Lord to train them up wholly 
for him. But now, by his holy providence, one party (the 
parents) was disabled from performing the covenant; its whole 
execution, therefore, devolved upon God. ‘ He is faithful and 



AGNES. 


173 


almighty; not one thing, -which he has promised, shall fail.’ 
Our dying brother triumphed in this thought. He said he felt 
sure that he should meet all his children in heaven. ‘ Sumner, 
Ellen, Lizzie, and (his voice failing, he rallied his -waning pow¬ 
ers, and, conquering the conqueror, said clearly) Susie! Not 
one of them will be wanting.’ He thus left them with the most 
delightful and unreserved confidence in the care of a covenant- 
keeping God and a gracious Father. Knowing his anxious 
temperament, I looked with wonder and admiration upon this 
victor)’ of his faith.” 

Mrs. W. “ That is my expectation and my 
hope. God is a covenant-keeping God. I 
have intrusted my soul to him for eternity in 
Jesus Christ, and I will trust my children with 
him.” 

Mrs. M. “ Have you no doubt, Mrs. W. ? ” 

Mrs. TV. “ Sometimes it is whispered in my 
ear, The children of good people do not always 
turn out well; yours may be of that descrip¬ 
tion. I cannot reason about this, either.” 

“ Where reason fails, 

With all her powers, 

There faith prevails, 

And love adores.” 

“ You have lost your only child,” said she; 


15* 


174 


AGNES. 


“ you have none to leave behind you. Some 
might think that you have more to be thank¬ 
ful for than I. It may not seem so hereafter. 
When my six children come to me in heaven, 
having been useful here, bringing their 
sheaves with them, how glad I shall be that I 
had six orphans to trust with God 1 ” 

I did not take out the little key from my 
pocket, as I thought at first that I should do. 
These words had made me feel that some of 
my sorrows over that little key had not been 
wise. I saw that it would be out of place if I 
should use it to instruct this dying saint. 

“ Beautiful words,” she continued,—“ ‘ the 
seed of Abraham, my friend.’ Have you never 
witnessed, Mr. M., touching instances of kind¬ 
ness among men toward the children of one 
who was an early friend ? ” 

Mr. M. “ Surely I have. I am myself an 
instance of it. A friend of my father, a col¬ 
lege classmate, has bestowed loving kindness 
on me which I can never repay in this world.” 



A GNES. 


175 


Mrs. W. “Is not God the author of that 
feeling toward the child of a dear friend?” 
Mr. M. “ No doubt he is.” 

Mrs. W. “ Then he possesses it himself” 
Mr. M. “ Yes, and exercises it, he says, 
‘to a thousand generations.’” 

“Mrs. Wales,” said I, “the influence of a 
godly man or woman, eminent for some special 
love and service toward God, follows in the 
line of descent through long periods of gen¬ 
ealogy ; there are families among us, you know, 
who have a reputation for goodness; uncom¬ 
mon numbers of their children are hopefully 
pious; we honor the stock to which they be¬ 
long, but we do not always consider that all has 
proceeded, in many cases, without doubt, from 
the signal favor which God bore to some man 
or woman who maintained a life of peculiar 
walking with God, sealing it continually with 
fresh acts of love and service. And so that 
blessing promised to Christ is virtually ful¬ 
filled to them: ‘ I will make thy name to be 


176 


AGNES. 


remembered in all generations; therefore 
shall the people praise thee for ever and ever.” 

“But,” said my wife, “what sight is more 
heartrending than a family of orphans ? ” 

“ And yet,” said I, “ observation has led me 
to feel less and less solicitude, in seeing a fam¬ 
ily of children left in orphanage by parents 
who were truly the children of God. The 
self-reliance which they early learn and prac¬ 
tise, the restraining and subduing power of a 
deceased parent’s memory, the friends raised 
up for them, all afford a good comment on 
those words: 6 Leave thy fatherless children, 
I will preserve them alive.’ Nothing seems 
to us more in violation of the natural and 
proper order of things, than the removal of a 
mother from a family of young children. We 
would have provided against such a calamity 
by a special law, had we arranged the affairs 
of life and death. He who is willing to do so 
great and solemn a thing as to remove a 
mother from the head of her large family, 
must have reasons for it, as Mrs. Wales says, 



AGNES. 


177 


‘ which would satisfy us, could we see them 
with a right mind.’ Such an event is so 
peculiarly an act of God’s providence, we may 
suppose that He who giveth to the beast his 
food, and to the young ravens which cry, will 
not fail to accomplish some great and good 
purpose by it to all who love him. He 
soothes the feelings of our dear Mrs. Wales, 
makes her speak words of comfort and cheer 
to those whom she is about to leave, and thus 
He secures for himself, in the hearts of the 
children, oftentimes, and in those of their 
friends, a degree of confidence in God as a 
covenant-keeping God, which nothing else 
could so well inspire.” 

Mrs. W "I expect to do more for my 
children in heaven than I could if I should 
live.” 

Mrs. M “ Why, Mrs. Wales, we came here 
to comfort you; but we are almost tempted 
to say we have never found so great faith; — 
certainly not in ourselves.” 


178 


AGNES. 


Mr. M. “ Please tell us how you expect in 
heaven to influence your children ? ” 

Mrs. W. “They will cherish my memory; 
remember my words; say to themselves, How 
would mother approve or disapprove of this! 
They v^ill never forget my praying with them. 
I have had scenes with each child which they 
will think of as long as they live.” 

A sweet girl of twelve years, standing with 
her face toward the window, began to sob, and 
suddenly left the room. 

Mrs. W. “0, that dear Charlotte! I was 
about to punish her, when she was eight years 
old, for an untruth. I took her into my cham¬ 
ber, locked the door, kneeled with her, spread 
the case before God, asked him to help me 
punish her, and to bless the rod for her salva¬ 
tion, and then I administered the punishment. 
She did not cry, but as soon as I had done, 
she put her arms about me, and said: ‘Dear 
mother, God has forgiven me; will you?’ She 
has been almost a faultless child from that day 
to this. Discipline, Mr. M., is greatly needed 


AGNES. 


179 


in many Christian families,—the subjection of 
children, by proper restraints and punish¬ 
ments, to authority; but they must be made 
to feel, in order to be benefited, that God is 
on the parents’ side; and therefore I have 
found prayer to be a powerful help in correct¬ 
ing a child. I have not finished my work 
with my children ; it will go on when I am in 
heaven.” 

Mrs. M. “I thought that you would say 
that you expected to minister to them here¬ 
after ; yet I know that you are not apt to 
have romantic or visionary feelings. What 
do you think about this ? ” 

Mrs. W “ I may or may not minister to 
them directly; that will be as God sees fit. 
What could I do for them?—I, who cannot save 
myself, and who will not be omniscient in 
heaven, any more than I am here, — what can 
I, or angels, do for my children, except as God 
appoints ? I trust I shall not come between 
them and God, in their love and confidence ; 
at least, I have told them so.” 


iso 


AGNES. 


The young woman who took care of her 
brought in the little boy, about a year old. 
He saw his mother, and made his hands and 
feet fly in his eagerness to get to her. I 
looked at my wife, and saw her face covered 
with tears and smiles. I knew that she was 
reminded, by the child, of her own little girl, 
and of the different circumstances in her own 
case and that of Mrs. Wales; and that she 
was making comparisons between this dying 
mother and herself. Christian mother, w T hich 
of the two would you prefer to be — a 
bereaved mother, your only child in heaven, 
or a dying widow, leaving six children behind 
you? 

If you say, a bereaved mother, perhaps one 
reason is, you have been bereaved, and would 
rather suffer known evils than those which 
your fancy depicts or thinks it sees in others. 

But while, in the nature of things, it is a 
greater trial of faith to leave a family of chil¬ 
dren. you probably never saw a parent 
doing so who suffered as much as one w T ho 


AGNES. 


181 


has buried a child. 0 Death! there is, to 
survivors, something in thee to which life, with 
all its fears and burdens, furnishes no counter¬ 
part. Thou art God’s curse against sin, unre¬ 
pealed by all the consolations and hopes of 
religion, which indeed help us to endure the 
stroke, but do not make death other than the 
king of terrors to us, in his approaches to 
those whom we love. It is not so hard for a 
Christian to die, under any circumstances, 
as it is to lose a child or beloved companion. 
The dying grace which we say is for a dying 
hour, sustains us when we die and leave our 
friends; but, when they or a child are taken 
from us, we are left with all our weaknesses 
and sinfulness to suffer under the loss. 

A pleasant sight now caught my eye. A 
little girl, about three years old, had made her¬ 
self acquainted with my wife during this call, 
and had been practising her little arch ways 
of play with her. My wife had now lifted her 
upon the bed where the mother lay; she drew 
up her chair, fixed a napkin on the child’s 
16 


182 


AGNES. 


bosom, and set her to eating a delicious Bartlett 
pear, which she had in her pocket. There are 
few things that afford such a mixture of 
amusement and happiness as to take a little 
child unawares, one with whom you are on 
familiar terms, set it down, and watch it, as 
you give it a delicious fruit and see it eaten. 
The looks of pleasure from a pair of roguish 
eyes; the glow of satisfaction overspreading 
the features; the laughter mixing in with the 
motion of the face in eating; the occasional 
offer of a bite to the mother; the slight em¬ 
barrassment at seeing ns all looking at her; 
made the little girl the object of delighted 
admiration, while the thought of its approach¬ 
ing orphanage awakened in ns feelings of 
tenderness and love. 

a I dare say,” said her mother, “ little Rachel 
will meet with a great many kind acts, and 
be taken care of. ‘I know all the fowls of 
the mountains/ God tells ns. This little one 
is of more value than many sparrows, isn’t 
she ? I am going to be with God, and he 


AGNES. 


183 


will remember my children, surely, when he 
sees me; and, if he needed any remembrancer, 
how much better able I should be, there, to 
obtain help for them, than here. But, after 
all, how little we know about such things! I 
give all up, and leave them with God.” 

We walked away; and, so full were we of 
what we had seen and heard, that we hardly 
spoke to each other for several minutes. At 
last I said: 

“From this time, I will certainly refrain 
from sorrowing over our childless condition. 
I would not exchange places with Mrs. Wales, 
with all her consolations ” 

Mrs . M. “ If you were in her place, you 
would have her consolations with it, I am 
not sure that I shall cease to sorrow. Our 
loss is none the less real and great, now, than 
before we made this call; only, we see how 
wrong it is to think that our sufferings are 
peculiar,” 

Mr. M. “ One thing makes me feel humble 


184 


AGNES, 


and quiet. Here is a dear saint, whom (if 
He loves me at all), God loves as much as he 
loves me. Every where we can find those 
who are dear to him. It bids me refrain 
from exalting myself and my affairs in my 
own esteem. I am only one ; there are other 
interests which are as important as mine ; I 
feel sorry that I have dwelt so much on my 
affliction.” 

Mrs. M. a If it has not made us murmur, 
nor kept us from doing our duty, we ought 
not to reproach ourselves for our sorrows. If 
something had made us happy, how inconsis¬ 
tent it would have been if we had wept. God 
intends that we should be joyful in prosperity, 
and in adversity consider.” 

Mr. M. “ It does me good to express my 
unconsidered feelings to you, for, by the act of 
expressing them, I am led to see their error, 
and so am kept from brooding over them.” 

Mrs. M. “ You said nothing, I observed, to 
Mrs. Wales, about Agnes.” 


AGNES. 


185 


Mr. M. “ How could I, with such a sight 
before me as those little children of hers, 
about to lose such a mother ? ” 

Mrs. M. “ One of the best helps in sorrow 
and trouble, surely is to visit people in afflic¬ 
tion.” 

Mr. M. “ What scenes there must be in 
heaven, every day, in the meetings of parents 
and children, and relatives and friends ; but, 
among them all, I do think that to meet a 
little child, who died in infancy, and has been 
for years in heaven, must have as much of 
surprise and gladness in it as anything ” 

Mrs. M. “ Yes, but, after the surprise and 
gladness are over, there is something else 
which I think must be a richer and more per¬ 
manent joy. You know that, when the novelty 
of meeting, after long separation, has ceased, 
we need something still to prevent satiety. 
Now, it seems to me that the greatest, the 
most enviable joy, in heavenly recognitions, 
must be experienced by those who themselves, 


16 * 


186 


AGNES. 


or whose children, or companions, or dear 
friends, have been eminently good and service¬ 
able to God and man. Much as I anticipate 
in meeting Agnes, I cannot sympathize with 
those parents who long to die in order to see 
their children. After getting home and find¬ 
ing all well, you know that life here runs on 
as before; getting home is not everything, 
pleasant as happy returns are. I would rather 
be Mrs. Wales, in heaven, receiving her chil¬ 
dren who shall have borne the Saviour’s cross 
here, and hearing him say, ‘Well done!’ 
than to meet dear little Agnes, a thousand 
times over.” 

Mr. M. “ You are right; so should I.” 

Mrs. M. “I wish there were less of selfish¬ 
ness in our sorrows, and less of it in our 
expectations of heaven. To be useful is the 
great end of life. God makes some useful to 
his church by suffering; others by working. 
There is that sick minister, whom we met at 
S- Springs, afflicted in such complicated 



AGNES. 


187 


ways. One of his people told me that he had 
done great good by his spirit and behavior in 
trouble, and by his prayers and occasional 
preaching, in all the neighboring churches. 
His wife must rejoice over him, when he 
comes to her in heaven, far more in conse¬ 
quence of the way in which God has honored 
him in doing good by him, than for any other 
reason.” 

Mr. M. "Iam told that they send for him, 
far and near, to visit people in great trouble of 
mind. He is a son of consolation. A mem- 
bej of Congress told me that he could count 
nine educated men, who, he thought, had 
been led to a religious life by the personal 
influence of that man.” 

Mrs. M. “ Suppose that he had spent his 
time only in weeping over his bereavements 
and afflictions?” 

Mr. M. “ 6 He that goeth forth and weep- 
eth, bearing precious seed;’—the weeping 
sower seems to be a paradox in natural things, 


188 


AGNES. 


but in spiritual things it is good for sowers to 
be great weepers” 

Mrs. M. “ What is the rest of that pas¬ 
sage ? ” 

Mr. M. “ 6 Shall doubtless come again with 
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.’ ” 

Mrs. M. “ c Sheaves with him.’ That is 
the way to make meetings and greetings in 
heaven happy. Just to be restored to lost 
friends, — how poor a satisfaction this is, of 
itself! Happiness here needs something solid 
to make it satisfying; it will be so there. 0, 
I hope, if you survive me, that you will not 
waste your time and strength in sorrowing, 
but remember how happy you will be, and 
how happy you will make me, if my death 
shall make you love God and the Saviour 
more than ever, and lit you to bless and help 
to save men. Think how much good God has 
enabled dear little Agnes to do through us; 
what a happy eternity she will have, as she 
traces out the influences of her death far down, 


AGNES. 


189 


it may be, to the judgment day. What is the 
mere pleasure of meetings and recognitions, 
compared with this ? ” 

But it becomes me here to draw the veil, 
and hide from view the “treasures of. dark¬ 
ness” connected with an event which soon 
followed this conversation. It was a little 
coffin, and no other, that furnished the key 
which has given occasion to this book. 


And now the graves of Mother and Child 
lie side by side in one of our cemeteries. 
To one of the parents, therefore, the key 
of the little coffin has ceased to be a memo¬ 
rial and a type, for the child is restored to 
her embrace. I am now sole proprietor of 
the little key. But as the evening star now 
sets earlier daily, and hastens below the 
horizon into the east, so the sad associations 
with this little symbol make less and less im¬ 
pression, and morning airs and dawning light 
are taking their place. As I was last week 


190 


A GNES. 


planting candy-tuft and the marvel-of-Peru 
upon those graves, — varying, as I love to 
do each year, the annuals or biennials which 
grow there, and expecting, without fail, to see 
flowers bloom from those seeds,—I thought of 
w r hat was planted underneath, and how certain 
it is that, in due season, I shall reap if I faint 
not. 

I feel disposed to end my tale in keeping 
with a beautiful epitaph over a grave near 
Athens, in Greece, which is in these sweet 
words: 

Eubulus, 

Son of Laon, 

LIVED SEVENTEEN YEARS. 

FAREWELL. 

The "farewell” on the stone is to the 
reader; — a comely act of gentle behavior in 
sorrow to the stranger whose curiosity should 
lead him to approach that grave. 

So, dear reader, Farewell! Agnes lived a 
twelvemonth, and here is her story. 

If God sees fit to use you in doing good, 


AGNES. 


191 


and would qualify you for great enjoyment, 
here and hereafter, he can accomplish it, per¬ 
haps, in no way more effectually than by put¬ 
ting into your hands the key of some pre¬ 
cious, buried treasure. Again, Farewell! 

THE END. 














































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Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 



Treatment Date: Nov. 2005 




PreservationTechnologie 

A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVATK 


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111 Thomson Park Drive 


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Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
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